Here Dead We Lie
by mebh
Summary: Following a disasterous operation in Aerugo, Colonel Mustang wakes from a coma to discover his world has fallen apart. Under the shadow of the state, he tries to find impossible answers before it is too late. Angst/Royai
1. The Hungry Strokes

**FMA: I do not own it... some wee cow does :p**

**New multichap folks. Try not to focus on the dates too much; they're there to guide you through the narrative rather than pinpoint any particular time within the canon world.**

**Massive thanks to Wordswithout for her thorough and supportive beta work!**

**Gah... legitimately nervous about starting a new piece... Tally ho!**

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_East City, 20th February 1911_

_The memory of a dead father._

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"Lieutenant Colonel Mustang's office," Riza Hawkeye spoke into the receiver having answered the call after just one ring. "I'm afraid Lieutenant Havoc isn't at his desk at the moment. I can pass on any-" she paused, "I see... I'll put you through."

The others in the office looked up to see that Hawkeye's expression had fallen into a sombre solidness. They knew then that whatever message the caller had for Havoc could only be bad.

"Sir, I have Dr Kinnock from the Rotunda hospital in Bannage for you." She nodded once, "Thank you."

Replacing the receiver, she shook her head and met the eyes of her concerned colleagues. Havoc's father had been unwell for nearly three months now, and as time moved on, the team knew that _that_ phone call was becoming more likely. The young Lieutenant put up a brave front, but as the weeks progressed the team began to notice the skittish flurry of dread that washed across his face every time the phone rang. Maybe it was for the best, Hawkeye thought, that Mustang would be the one to deliver the news.

A few moments after the call came through, Mustang emerged from his office with his coat already on. With lips drawn in a tight line and eyes sharp, he made his way towards the door.

"I'll be at the firing range. I don't want to be bothered unless the world's ending, clear?" he clipped.

Everyone nodded apart from Breda who half stood and sputtered out his question, "Havoc's dad, Sir?"

"Passed away an hour ago. They're waking him tonight and Thursday; the funeral's on Friday. Hawkeye, put through the request for leave, please, and Breda," Mustang said, feigning frustration, "do try to have your dress blues washed and pressed by then."

Entering the firing range, Mustang didn't have much trouble finding Havoc; he needed only to follow the frantic, unmeasured shots barking out through the cold practice suite. He didn't need to take a breath to steady himself: he had been preparing for this moment for weeks.

He entered the booth, careful to maintain his quiet until Havoc emptied his pistol. When the man grunted and dropped another clip to the floor, Mustang reached forward and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

Turning with red eyes, Havoc knew immediately what Mustang's presence signified.

"That's it then?" he asked, pulling the ear defenders from his head.

Mustang nodded, "That's it."

Havoc nodded in return, a new dampness springing to his eyes. He plucked a cigarette from his breast pocket and thrust it into his mouth with shaking fingers.

"That stupid bastard," he mumbled, trying in vain to light his cigarette, "drinking himself into the fucking turf while my mother watched."

Mustang winced, watching the man struggle with his cigarette. Having never known a father, Mustang couldn't draw comparisons or mourn for some distant loss; he could only concentrate on his man's own complicated grief. Ignoring the irony of Havoc's smoking at such a time, he took the lighter from him and flicked it to working; there was no room for his alchemy here.

Seconds later, cigarette and all had been discarded as Havoc was pulled by neck and back into a tight embrace where he wept deeply in the silence of the sound deadened booth.

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_Central City, 26th October 1915_

_Sullen mouth and purpled eyes. The hungry strokes..._

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How could a man of thirty look so small? A man who had murdered thousands and harboured a dream to save a nation; who drank deeply and loved darkly; who cut the minds of most with the sharpest of tongues, and who rubbed shoulders with the most powerful people in the whole world.

Here, lying in front of Hughes, Mustang looked nothing like the poised Colonel who left Central only two weeks before to supplement an offensive in the South. His roughly shaved head was swathed in white bandages stained to yellow by the sickly light of the hospital room, and his left arm was set in a heavy cast. His left hand, also bandaged thickly, was cut short with his ring and little finger having been blown clean off. Breaths broke shallow from a sullen mouth and his purpled eyes remained closed and unmoving. He had been like this since they found him eleven days ago, half buried and bloody in the wetted earth.

Hughes hissed, pulled from his thoughts by a steaming cup of coffee held in front of him. A light hand rested on his shoulder.

"Has there been any change?" Gracia asked, settling herself beside him.

Hughes took the cup gratefully and found his wife through bleary eyes, "A little. Some movement before and a little mumbling."

Gracia took his hand and squeezed it gently, allowing her eyes to drift across the slick, grey skin of her husband's best friend.

"That's a good sign. Maybe he'll come round sooner than we think," she assured him. Feeling a fat tear splash on her hand, she took her husband by the shoulder and pulled him against her, "Oh Maes..."

Hughes shook his head and drew in a hard, thick breath, "That's not it. That's not it at all, I-"

Gracia shifted herself to better support the man, only to have him shudder and correct himself, sniffing loudly.

"Ah," he sighed, removing his glasses to wipe at tired eyes, "you know, Gracia, I'm not sure it's even fair of me to want him to wake up. It would be altogether kinder if he never did..."

Of course, Gracia thought, because what could be more terrible? When Roy Mustang awoke, it would be to a world from which his dearest friends had been obliterated.

Hand in hand and under the blanket of each other's sadness, husband and wife sat quietly while the hospital equipment checked off Mustang's dark slumber in a chirping series of hungry strokes.

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Thanks for reading chaps. Interested in your thoughts as always. See you soon :D


	2. Vaguely through the Pane

**FMA: I don't own FMA.**

**Thanks to the wonderful Wordswithout for her beta work and to everyone for their terrific support - muchly appreciated!**

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_Central City, 2nd October 1915_

_How many acres are their scattered fingers worth?_

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Death came to Tolven on a bright blue morning. The small market town on the border of Aerugo and Amestris should have expected an attack, but in that habit so natural to people, they never _really_ thought it would happen to them.

Call it justice or revenge, Amestris sought its answer.

Having won his honour in the wind blown West, one General Vought took the helm of organising the response, but Fuhrer Bradley insisted on the addition of a name sure to strike terror into the hearts of northern Aerugo: Colonel Mustang, The Flame Alchemist.

Everyone was familiar with the propaganda that seeped through the border regions like a dark tide during the war effort in Ishval. On his return, Mustang was no stranger to it himself. Occasionally, while flicking through a broadsheet, his gloved fingers would pause on an article profiling the frantic disinformation distributed by bordering nations. There, he would see a ghastly image of himself wrought in monochrome: sometimes standing astride a mound of skulls, and sometimes with the tail of the white dragon emblem of the Amestrian flag. It was no surprise that the Censoring Committee let the articles run to print: it served the Fuhrer to remind his people that even they were not safe from the jaws of his dogs of war.

With his fingers to the pulse of Central's operations, Mustang wasn't exactly surprised when he was beckoned to the Fuhrer's office. As Vought's keen eyes raked over his slight form, Mustang listened to Bradley's vision of his role in the rebuttal: "Let's be creative, Mustang. Show them what we're made of." Quashing the familiar surge of panic in his belly, Mustang made only one demand. He wanted his team with him.

Now, two hours into the initial proposals for the response, nerves were frayed and the kitten gloves had come off.

"I don't understand why we're still discussing this. By deploying a punitive unit swiftly, we will communicate to the world that Amestris does not play victim in acts of terrorism, while these same monsters sit at our tables and play diplomat," General Vought said, less open to argument as the forum ran on.

With a shallow laugh of indignation, Colonel Mustang stole the room's attention, "I hardly think sending an entire squadron south is appropriate, General."

Vought's cool blue eyes swept over Mustang, "Yes, _Hero_ of Ishval – tell us what _is_ appropriate here."

"General, what you're suggesting is not a proportional response," Mustang said, keeping his palms flat against the polished table, "Until someone claims ownership of the attack, rushing into the Aerugonian Steppes is about the worst thing we could do."

General Vought narrowed his eyes, "Thank you, Colonel." He spoke to the rest of the room through a crooked smile. "The gentle voice of Amestrian compassion speaks, everyone."

A nervous titter of laughter swept across the small crowd. Havoc stole a glance at Hawkeye, who gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

Vought leant forward, fixing Mustang with a hard, honest stare. "It was the National Aerugonian Front and you know it, Mustang."

"It wasn't the NAF, General," Mustang said through a dark smile, causing half the attendees to stir uncomfortably. What in the world was he thinking, locking horns with General Vought like that?

"Colonel," the General responded coolly, though his eyes told another story, "it really was."

Mustang sat forward and pointed a stiff finger at a report lying open on the table. "In their thirty years in operation, the NAF have yet to take a human life. They target civil buildings, transport and manufacturing, and to this date have always phoned in a warning. The attack in Tolven employed thirteen pipe bombs _packed_ with shrapnel. You don't need shrapnel to blow up a building: it wasn't them."

The room fell into silence as everyone chewed over the Colonel's attestation. Finally, a slender secretary to the General pushed his glasses up his nose and dragged the report towards him. He sighed through a smile, glancing lazily in Mustang's direction.

"If it wasn't them then who was it, _Flame_ Alchemist? Thirty-four Amestrians lost their lives in Tolven and the people of this country are seeking justice. Not everyone has your unique talent for pragmatism, Colonel."

Well used to the base provocation of mentioning his services in Ishval, Mustang offered a sloppy smirk and sat back, folding his arms. Behind him, Hawkeye managed to resist rolling her eyes.

"A dissident group who want precisely the reaction we're about to give them, _Mr_ Bormann. If we go to Tolven now, we'll rouse the NAF and destroy any diplomatic value we have in the region. The NAF leaders are _talking_ to us for the first time in thirty years, and we don't want to provoke a tit for tat situation. We've been there already and it _doesn't_ _work_."

"And so what if we provoke a reaction? What would be so terrible, Colonel? They're just a bunch of slow farmers and straw chewers," Bormann said through an affected lisp.

"Over forty percent of the region's population is under nineteen years old. We'd be risking the lives of countless children, as well as serving to encourage a new crop of dissidents. The whole area is a hotbed of social-"

General Vought's fist connected with the desk and everyone leapt out of their skins. Everyone apart from Mustang, anyway.

"This is the military, not some bloody socialist drinking club, Colonel, so watch where you're putting your cheap philosophies! What we're looking at is acres of land that should be ours, never mind about those damned foreign brats."

Mustang accepted Vought's outburst with a nod, noting with a brief darkening of his eyes that he had once been a 'damned foreign brat'. The General was no idiot.

Sighing, Mustang raised his black eyes to meet the General's blue. "And tell me, sir," he said. "These foreign brats... how many acres would you say their scattered fingers are worth?"

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_Central City, 31st October 1915_

_My boy loved you. The devil in the bed. Vaguely through the pane._

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He didn't have any fingernails on his left hand. Even now, they hadn't started to grow back. He watched the mottled blue-black skin with a damp kind of interest, twitching the digits and wincing at the tight sensation. Then there was that void to the left of his middle finger; two ugly stumps and a puckered fold of skin.

"The nurses say you haven't shed a single tear."

Mustang had almost forgotten the other presence in the room; the slight woman sitting to his right with her hands perched like doves on her green woollen skirt. With her quiet request that she sit a while by the bedside of her late son's commander, Mrs Havoc was admitted entry where many weren't. Hughes, of course, had cautioned against it, but Mustang welcomed the audience for reasons he didn't care to reveal.

Mrs Havoc sighed and her warm breath brushed against the back of his other hand – the good one.

"_They_ call you strong."

Across the room a young Sergeant stood with her back to the wall, heels glued tightly together. Her dark brown eyes canted downwards shyly as Mustang weighed his gaze on her. They snagged on the sight of his butchered hand before shooting back up again, eager to see if her gracelessness had been spotted. It had been, of course.

"My boy loved you."

The Sergeant cleared her throat, and Mustang released her from his scrutiny. He took note – with something like guilt – of the girl's skittish, rabbit-like eyes. _So unlike her steady amber_.

"I told him not take the post, with everything the papers said about you after the rebellion. People said you could turn a man to ash in less than a second."

Closing his eyes for a moment, Mustang could imagine how the conversation played out. A mother begging her son – nearly four heads taller than her – not to serve _that man_. Havoc would have become angry, defending his new commander and criticising the backwards thinking of a woman who only cared for his safety. He opened his eyes again slowly, and was mesmorised by the unshed tears and irises of the deepest blue.

"He said, 'you're stupid, ma' and called me simple. He damn near took the door off the hinges when he barged out of our house," the woman continued with a paper thin voice, "and let me tell you, Colonel Mustang-"

Apprehension unfurled its dark wings. Mustang's fingers stopped their painful fidgeting.

"My Jean cried for you then. My Jean managed to shed a tear for _you_."

For the longest time, Mustang looked like he wasn't going to speak. But finally, he pulled in a red hot breath, and his lips parted.

"Because I have nothing to grieve for. I know they're not-"

Her palm was quick to find his face.

"Stop it. Stop it!" she screamed, the sharp sound ringing off the cool metal fittings of the hospital room. "Don't pretend they're not dead, you coward. Admit it. _Admit_ they died on your watch!"

Stunned for a moment, the Sergeant finally roused herself to moving. She pushed off the wall and stumbled forward, placing herself between the frantic woman and frail alchemist.

Mustang was unmoving and pale in the bed; black, fathomless eyes stared blankly as the woman railed. Throughout the tirade, he was silent...

_I can allow her this much_.

"You _let_ them die," she spat. "You let my boy die, you coward. You heartless, _feckless_ devil."

Boots squeaking on the polished floor, the Sergeant pushed the ageing woman out of the seat and back towards the door. Mrs Havoc, for all her size, put up a brave fight and after a few clumsy bats, broke free from the young soldier. She staggered forward and stole a few steps before exhaustion and grief dragged her to the ground. There, she knelt, silently clutching at the ends of her heavy cardigan.

In a bare two minutes, orderlies came to fetch the small woman and hide her away from the devil in the bed.

**ooo**

A pair of wood pigeons busied themselves on the window ledge, totally oblivious of the dark eyed audience watching from within. They ruffled their feathers and their chalky song could be heard vaguely through the pane. Evening had thrown its cloak over Central and life – normal life – was hunkering down together against the dark. The bright lit floor stank of hospital disinfectant and Mustang suppressed the urge to vomit as he recalled a thick clump of grey hair stuck to a tear sodden face. He had done that to Havoc's mother, but he was only telling the truth as he knew it.

Hughes uncapped his pen.

Turning in the bed, Mustang offered his friend only the briefest glance before his eyes found the window again. It faced the South. Towards Aerugo.

Hughes recapped the pen and crossed his legs at the ankles. Then, with a rough sigh, he uncrossed his ankles and tucked them beneath his seat. He leant forward, chin on his hands and elbows on his knees. The muscles in his friend's jaw worked and the merest hint of a scowl shaped the fine slope of his brows; he knew he had done wrong by Havoc's mother. Hughes could tell.

"Why did you say that to her, Roy?"

No answer. It was always the same – like fishing in a nearly empty pond. Hughes would just have to continue casting his line until something bit.

"Roy. Come on. She shouldn't have been here in the first place."

Silence hung in every corner of the room.

"They had to sedate her," Hughes said quietly. "I know it's hard, Roy – I _do_ – but you have to be more c-"

"They're not dead."

His voice was velvet soft, but so, _so _quiet and dark it was scarcely there; not words but shadows of words.

Every time. It always came to this. Mustang had been awake for four days, and for those four days they had done nothing but walk around in the same circle. At first Hughes supposed it was the medication. What else could it be? What else could it be, when his friend of nearly thirteen years grasped at his collar and screamed 'bring them home' in a voice that was hardly there at all?

It was clear, though, on the second day, that Mustang wasn't for changing his mind. He stomached the pain to prove a point, and faced Hughes with clear, unmedicated eyes. "My men are alive," he said, no doubt in his voice. "And you're here trying to convince me they're not, when you should be _looking_ for them. We should be looking for them, Hughes. They're out there – I know it."

It was an awful deadlock of will and truth, and the strain was already telling.

Hughes scrubbed his hands down his face and shook his head.

The alchemist caught the frustrated gesture and his whole body stiffened, a flint-spark of something dangerous flashing in his eyes.

"Hughes... they're not. They're not dead," he ground out.

The birds continued feathering themselves unheeded.

Hughes slid forward on the chair and placed his hand over Mustang's. It trembled beneath his palm.

It was only a matter of time before Mustang's confusion was replaced with something else: a shadow of grief. An angry, bitter wrenching of the heart. _He has to know_, Hughes thought. _He has to know well enough by now._

"They're not dead," Mustang repeated. "You – we have to find them... They're not dead." His eyes danced, bright with emotion – with sheer _bafflement_ that Hughes was not listening to him. His word should have been gospel, they were _his_ men.

"Yes," Hughes uttered. His heart clenched and his throat tightened as he looked at those hungry, black eyes. How many times would he have to exchange these words? "They are. They're dead, Roy."

He needed Mustang to believe him, desperately needed it. It wouldn't be long before bigger men than him came demanding acknowledgement of the deaths. The South was a mess and Amestris called for its Flame Alchemist again.

"Roy..."

"Prove it," Mustang said, each syllable like a stone dropped into a pond.

Nothing moved nor made a sound in the hospital room as Hughes considered those words. What further proof did Mustang need that the squadron had perished in the field? By the time reinforcements arrived, there was nothing left of the sixty or so men but a crop of blackened dog tags; every last one of them had been burnt to nothing. Every one except Mustang.

"There's no proof that they're alive," Hughes said eventually.

Mustang looked at his hands, then out through the darkened window. "I don't need proof that they're _alive_." He frowned at the empty window. The birds hadn't stayed there after all.

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Thanks chaps - as always, thoughts are appreciated. x


	3. Scorched by a Dark Star

**FMA: Me no ownio.**

Massive, massive thanks to **wordswithout** for her dedicated beta work again.

Also cheers to you lot for waiting for this chap – apologies!

Thoughts, always, mean a lot – so if you have a sec, drop one :)

Tally ho!

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_East City, 7th December 1911_

_The birthday boy. Just some blonde._

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A hand rested on the small of Mustang's back, pausing him as he made to enter the bar. He leant into the touch and cast an expectant eye over his shoulder. Hawkeye, standing an inch behind him, offered him a slim shadow of a smile.

"They've been drinking for hours, you know," she said, neat clouds of mist puffing from her mouth.

Mustang turned fully to face her and blew on his hands. "I _do_ know," he said, his eyes betraying the smile behind his fingers. "Only for a certain blonde kelpie, _I_ would have been too."

"Well," she passed him to pull open the door with an 'after you' gesture. "You'll thank me when the General calls for those quarterlies in the morning."

After indulging in a lazy look of indignation, Mustang offered her a cheeky wink and entered the bar.

He was met with an explosion of sound, light and warmth: it was wonderful. The pub was packed full of revellers, all of them chattering noisily. The bright chink of glasses punctuated the hum of conversation and Mustang filled his lungs with a breath full of hops and food. He stood amidst the clot of people by the bar, glancing around for his subordinates. Fuery's wave caught his attention and with a sly hand, he guided Hawkeye towards them.

The men offered something between a wave and salute before shoving and sidling to clear some space at the table for the new arrivals. Falman stood, swayed, then hobbled off towards the bar to get their drinks in. Even amidst the chaos of a dark December Friday, it didn't take the pair long to notice that someone very important was missing.

"Where's the birthday boy?" Mustang asked, helping Hawkeye out of her coat.

Havoc waved a hand dangerously close to his drink as he slurred out his answer. "He's outside for some fresh air. Some woman or something. Didn't show. Should've shown. Typical woman... in other words. Know'am mean?" He leant across the table to address Hawkeye conspiratorially as she settled herself in her seat. "You're a cruel breed, Hawkeye: you women."

Mustang rolled his eyes at Fuery who smiled back meekly, quietly thrilled at the attention. Shrugging back into his heavy coat, he grabbed two bottles at random.

"Be good," he quipped, noting how Havoc's head was half a foot closer to the table than when they first arrived a few moments ago. He sighed and threw a thumb back at his aide as he pushed away from the table. "Especially you, Hawkeye. You're a riot with a healthy dose of gin in you. God knows you are..."

Hawkeye didn't dignify the lie with a response; she was too busy preventing Havoc from drinking from the glass in which he had just extinguished his cigarette. It was going to be a long night.

With both drinks cradled in one hand, Mustang squeezed and side-stepped his way through the tight crowd of people and out the back door. He was hit immediately by the stinking fog of a rickety old ventilator. The vapour washed against his cheek and under his collar, forcing a light gag. Trust Breda to choose the Cornmarket's filthiest brew house – the man had a talent for it.

Slipping on a questionable lump of grey-green matter, the Lieutenant Colonel corrected himself with a grunt of profound displeasure. Birthday boy or not, Breda was keeping him back from his first drink of the weekend; if he didn't show himself soon, he was going to be quite happily abandoned. Scanning the alley, Mustang's eyes landed on an interesting addition to the collection of bins and beer kegs: a pair of scuffed boots. That was his man then.

"Breda!" the alchemist called, choking back a disbelieving bark of laughter.

Hearing no response, Mustang stoated his way up the alley, all the while trying his best to avoid rotten shavings of potato and dank, oily puddles.

"Breda," he called again, nearing the large bin obscuring the sodden Sergeant.

Muffled by the grip of drink, a gruff voice granted him an answer this time. "Piss off!" A cough. "Damn cats."

A quirked eyebrow and turn of the lip wasn't nearly enough for_ that_ response. Curling his free fingers around the edge of the bin, Mustang leant forward to spy on Breda. He honestly wanted to laugh at the sight, but couldn't quite bring himself to.

The Sergeant lay, legs akimbo, against the moss covered brick wall. His eyes were closed and his head swung back and forth in the thick pendulum of drink.

Mustang set the bottles on the bin lid and crouched forward.

"Good lord, Breda. What have you been drinking, man?" He grunted as, with considerable effort, he peeled the rotund Lieutenant from the cobblestones.

"My fill," Breda muttered sloppily into his own shirt collar, before sliding from his superior's grasp to slump against the wall again. By some great feat, he actually succeeded in opening his eyes. One step at a time, Mustang supposed.

He sat back on his heels and surveyed the sad state of his man. Breda's shirt was hanging out and a comet of gravy streaked across his cheek; a souvenir from his birthday meal. His eyes were glassy, wild and over-bright, while his legs and arms were resolutely on strike. He also appeared to have a small slug stuck to his thumb.

Breda's eyes focussed, by intent or coincidence, on his superior. "Oh..." he murmured, "it's _you_."

The Lieutenant Colonel's face soured. "Don't sound so disappointed."

Breda chuckled at that and trailed his finger across the surface of a puddle. "Hey Colonel..."

"Yes?"

"C'mere..." he ordered sullenly. Gaining no response, he flapped his large hand in time with his demands. "C'mere, c'mere, c'mere... Sir. C'mere."

Mustang rocked back and glanced over his shoulder towards the warm glow pulsing from the open door of the pub. Here _he_ was in a stinking alleyway with a poleaxed ginger sergeant, when he could be nestled snugly beside other cognisant people with a dram in his hand. He was about to turn back to Breda when a silhouette appeared at the doorway; a shadow play he knew only too well. A reluctant smile found its way to his lips. He waved lightly and the figure returned the gesture in kind, trails of condensation playing at her feet. The slightest flinch of her booted foot sent the misty carpet into a frenzy. He knew the feeling.

Sighing, Mustang reached up and grabbed both beers before settling himself on the cold stone beside his wetted Sergeant. A moment later, he was strong armed into a loving head lock.

"Breda-" he choked, his voice squeezed into a rasping falsetto.

The Sergeant smacked his lips a few times and hugged Mustang a little closer. Beer and heartbreak were the enemy of professional distance it seemed. "Ask you something, Colonel?"

"Sergeant..." Mustang drawled, weaselling awkwardly in the solid grasp to unblock his airway a little.

The red head heaved in a breath. A warm, thick wash of air filled Mustang's nostrils as Breda sighed whimsically. "Are... are they all just a bunch of rotten bitches?"

The smaller man paused in his struggles as the soft pit-pat of leather on wet stone signalled the arrival of another. Hawkeye stood at the edge of the bin and looked down on both men with a patient sort of judgement in her eyes. Burying his head against Mustang's shoulder, Breda remained blissfully unaware of the calm, curious presence.

Mustang considered his answer more carefully now under the humoured scrutiny of that level amber gaze. "Eh... no." He twisted his neck to meet Breda's watery eyes. "No, Breda. They're not. You just haven't found the right one yet."

Breda nodded vigourously, flaking dried gravy off against the other man's jacket. Suppressing a groan, Mustang watched the heavy eyelids flutter as booze addled sleep tried to claim his ordinarily astute Sergeant.

Mustang shook him. "Come on, Sergeant. Let's get you-"

"You found her, Colonel?" Breda murmured sloppily, half asleep now. "The right one?"

Carefully, Mustang glanced up through his fringe to see Hawkeye watching him with her head cocked, _very_ interested now. The alchemist made a face at her before settling back against his man with a smirk.

"You know, Breda, I don't suppose I ever needed to. She was never lost."

Breda breathed through a smile, still sharp enough to know he was being cheated out of _something;_ some nugget of understanding.

"Yeah? Lucky you. Who is she?"

Mustang knew it annoyed her, just a little really, that he took such great pleasure in playing so close to the cliff edge always. A part of him sometimes wanted them to get caught. Beneath everything: the uniform, heroism, pomp and wit, there was still that rakish hallion; that bright star that ordered attention.

Mustang tossed her his impossible smirk and patted Breda on the back, never allowing his eyes to stray from hers.

"Just some blonde."

* * *

_Central City, 1__st__ November 1915_

_Scorched by a dark star. The bleak token. His rare and precious thing._

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He had only been visiting Mustang for a fortnight but Hughes felt like he had been doing it for a lifetime. A hollowness had settled itself in his chest, and as he made his way up the slick corridor he fought to remember a time when he didn't pay this mournful vigil. Before the mission to Tolven, with Mustang and his men back in Central, his world was full of colour and purpose: his beautiful wife and daughter at home, and the offbeat humour and drive of his friend at headquarters. But now – now was a world scorched white by a dark star.

One day bled into the next, each filled with cloying silences and lost, hungry stares. He almost felt relieved in those few moments when the bow snapped and Mustang railed against the military - and him - for failing to commission a search for the squadron. "We have set the noose about their necks, Maes," he said. "You and I both, in our own weaknesses, have kicked the stool from under their feet."

No matter how impassioned the alchemist became, though, the fight wasn't long in leaving him. He simply didn't have the strength, and that was the sin of it all. There was always something, some forgotten detail, that threw him from his path. Breathless and pale, he stuttered, stalled and slipped into the same damp torpor, refusing to look at Hughes for the rest of his stay. The shame in those eyes was enough to steal the Inspector's breath away: shame born of grief, powerlessness and, Hughes imagined, having survived. He felt suddenly that he and Mustang were standing on either side of an ever widening gulf, shouting at each other through cupped hands and without hope of ever crossing.

Hughes slowed his pace, caught off-guard by a wave of sadness that froze to a thick lump in his throat. Drifting towards the wall, he had to bite his lip to keep himself in check. It was definitely getting harder, he knew that much at least. As desperately as he wanted to be there for Mustang as long as the man needed it, his tether was fast becoming shorter. How could they live like this: the enforced limbo of not knowing and not believing?

With a sniff, Hughes picked up his pace again, glancing towards the end of the corridor, and Mustang's room. A figure emerged from it, slim and dressed in grey. He checked back inside the room once before stepping out fully and closing the door gently behind him. At the sound of Hughes' even steps, he looked up, his face a picture of shock, before he settled his features into a more pleasant arrangement.

"Ah," he chirped at his approach, thrusting bone-white hands into his pockets. "Good morning...," he said, straining to see Hughes' rank. "Lieutenant...Colonel, is it?"

Hughes didn't answer. In a few strides he was at the door and shoving the stranger out of the way to peer inside. Quiet and still, neither the room nor its occupant showed any sign of stirring. He sighed and withdrew, being careful to close the door as quietly as he had opened it.

"I was just checking on the Colonel," the man said. "Horrible thing to have happened. Trag-"

Hughes stepped forwards, backing the stranger off and further down the hall. "Who _are_ you?"

"Oh my, where are my manners!" A cocking of the head – eyes sharp – accompanied his offered hand. "Bormann. Martin Bormann."

Not quite possessing Mustang's forte for 'polite ignorance', Hughes gave the offered hand a perfunctory shake as Bormann continued.

"I'm afraid I don't have an impressive military title like you chaps – just Bormann. You probably won't have heard of me, I -" he rolled his eyes dramatically, searching for the right word, "_collaborated_ with the Colonel on the Tolven committee."

Dread shifted in Hughes' gut and in no consultation with his mind, his instinct had him forcing another step away from the room. "Collaborated how?" he asked, summoning every inch of authority his Inspector's post afforded him.

Bormann laughed, full of bashfulness and sly eyes. "I'm with Quality Management." He levelled his pale gaze at Hughes, "The Fuhrer commissioned me personally to work on the mission: keep an eye on costings, make sure General Vought's requirements were met, _manage_ our dear Colonel Flame."

The cold dread simmered to scalding disdain at the sound of Bormann's coaxing nicety. "And you're still managing him, I suppose?"

"Under the Fuhrer's direct orders," he smiled, "yes. I am. Which reminds me..." He raised a finger to keep Hughes at bay while he searched through his breast pocket, talking as he went. "The technicians found something rather interesting when clearing the field and I thought, 'I must show this to the Colonel.'" He produced a small slip of mottled brown tin from his pocket and handed it to Hughes.

A dog tag.

Hughes felt the weight of it in his palm; the thin pressure of a terrible item. He identified it almost immediately but wished he hadn't – not in front of this man. He could have been holding a thousand dog tags – a thousand times a thousand – because the weight of this one simple piece of burnt tin was stupefying.

"I have it on good authority that the Colonel is struggling somewhat with the outcome of the Tolven operation," he continued. "I mean, a General of the Amestrian army dead, not to mention all of his own team. I was hoping to give this to him myself, but he wasn't for waking. Perhaps, though, it's better a good friend convinces him to see sense. They _are_ dead. More than dead! Vapourised, I hear. Lucky we pay good money for our alloy tags or one might have thought they'd simply evaporated. A whole squadron vanished to nothing but ash in a matter of hours – _minutes _maybe, tch."

Hughes met those pale, appraising eyes and noted the clinical humour buried far beneath the peacocking sympathy. "Are there more?" he asked. His throat was painfully dry.

Bormann delivered his same cold smile. "Yes – sixty or so. Like I say, the entire squadron. Barring a couple, actually." Conspiratorially, he leant up towards Hughes until their cheeks were almost touching. "I thought this one might have particular significance in proving a point though, don't you think?"

No words came to him. Hughes' mind was a desert made of tin. In his palm, as real and as wicked as the man in front of him, was proof that Riza Hawkeye was dead.

Bormann sighed and stretched. "Well, Colonel, I'll leave you both to chat it out," he said, then half turning, fixed Hughes with an art critic's quizzical eye. "Now that I think of it, I'm given to understand that you two have _the_ most interesting conversations. I hope you have every success in coaxing your friend back to reality, or I may have to make myself privy to those little chit-chats of yours."

Too dumbfounded to be angry, too scared to be scathing – only one question occupied Hughes' mind as he watched Bormann turn and walk away.

"Tolven was only the beginning," he said quietly, steadily. "You want him to serve again – in this engagement."

Bormann paused and deigned to glance at Hughes over his narrow shoulder. "Not I, _Mister_ Hughes. The people of Amestris, and our mighty Fuhrer. You would both do well to remember who it is you serve."

With that, the secretary snorted and strolled off down the corridor, whistling the national anthem as he went.

Hughes watched him until he disappeared around the corner, waiting for another smug smirk, but none came. His sweating palm closed around the tag in his hand.

Despite his reason and sympathy, in his heart, Hughes wanted to believe that Mustang was right. There were stronger people than him who became enchanted by those fathomless, dark eyes – willing to fold before and follow the great soul that lay behind them. But here it was, the bleak token of his team's demise.

Slipping the tag into his pocket, Hughes pushed open the door. His eyes darted to the figure in the bed. He could swear that Mustang looked smaller every time he saw him. He was curled in on himself, as much as the equipment would allow him, and his broken arm jutted out over the edge of the bed. The morning light struck the purpled stumps where fingers should be, and cut a shaft along the plaster-cast to splinter and curve across the folds of the hospital blankets. In sleep, he was almost always content, if not happy. It was strange. Mustang had been plagued by nightmares since he first lay his head down in the deserts of Ishbal, but now that tragedy had actually snatched at his own hoard, his sleep was filled with mews and whispered smiles.

Nervous and still rocked by Bormann's presence in their affairs, Hughes shuffled to the seat beside the bed. A warm breath drifted across his arm, accompanied by a light, broken moan. The faintest shadow of a smile played about his friend's lips as his eyelashes fluttered darkly against his ivory skin. Whatever it was the alchemist was dreaming of, he was in a kinder world than this one. Hughes fought a rueful smile as he swept a hand across Mustang's shorter hair, a habit he had developed since the bandages came off. His fingers paused just north of the thick staples – twenty-one in total – that ran in three thick tracks from nape to crown, holding his fractured skull in place. His detractors would say that he was lucky he was so badly hurt, otherwise there would have been a case for Mustang-turning-Kimblee and destroying his own comrades himself. There was a terrifying and unavoidable correlation between Mustang's power and their deaths, after all.

Though even with the teams of engineers and analysts, no answer had been found to the mystery of the Tolven defeat. It took them hours to secure the area enough to even reach the field, hundreds of Amestrian soldiers spilling into a location where only sixty had originally been assigned. As the deployment swept across the expanse of muck and rock, they found nothing but dog tags and smoking belt buckles scattered like seeds. It was only when one young major scaled the Sugar Loaf, the jutting rock that marked the border, that Mustang was spotted. Typically, it was his gloved right hand that gave him away – dirtied, but eternally recognisable by anyone who donned the blue of Amestris.

They were sure he was dead. He was waist deep in the red mud, and his arm was so badly broken it looked wholly detached from his body. Only when they tried extract him out did they note the flickering life, that slim thread that bound him to this world. In the back of a state ambulance, the great Flame Alchemist parried with death until they got him stabilised a little better in South City hospital, and even then, the spectre stayed by his side as surely as Hughes would when he arrived at Central.

Hughes remembered everything about that day. Maria Ross, face flushed and fingers shaking, burst into his office to flick on the broadcast from the South. In seconds, the man's tiny office was crammed full, everyone holding a collective breath as the personnel codes came filtering through the transistor.

On enlisting, each soldier was issued with a unique number preceded by the first two letters of their surname. Then there was the triage ranking: P1 was walking wounded, P2 wounded, P3 immediate surgery and P4 dead or dying. Everyone knew the triage codes by rote, and their friends' codes even better. With no bodies to account for, Hughes always thought they should have been reported MIA until an enquiry was held, but they were _that_ sure. There were names, of course, that stood out amongst the rest...

_Bravo Romeo 544637 – P4. _

_Foxtrot Uniform 899189 – P4. _

_Hotel Alpha 560581 – P4. _

_Foxtrot Alpha 365910 – P4. _

_Hotel Alpha 656111 – P4. _His vision swam.

Each code came crackling through the radio, and each one was punctuated with P4. There was one code missing though, the one most everyone had been waiting for. The corporal signed off, however, and the airway reverted to a cackle of white noise and sporadic dialogue. Everyone filtered out of the room, lost in their own ways at the news, but it was just as Hughes guided Ross to the door, that the radio sprang to life again. He didn't realise until her fingers closed about his hand that he had grabbed hold of her arm.

_Mike Uniform 400432 – P4._

His breath was stolen, then –

_Cancel that... Mike Uniform 400432 – P3._

After a fraught phone call to Gracia he didn't even remember making, Hughes was at Central's Military Infirmary twenty-one hours before Mustang was.

When he was first admitted entry to the intensive care unit, he walked straight past Mustang's bed, his face was so badly swollen. His skin was purple – _deeper_ than purple – almost black. He scarcely looked human at all. Now though, in his own private room and with no swelling, he was still a shadow of the man who left for Tolven.

"Sergeant?" A whispered question shook Hughes from his reverie. He looked down.

Mustang was staring at him, hard. There was something strange in the depths of his eyes, like he was looking at Hughes from very far away, straining to see.

"Sergeant?" he repeated.

It struck Hughes then: his black hair and glasses. Mustang must have been dreaming still. A waking dream where the young Sergeant Fuery still lived and breathed.

"No," Hughes whispered. He cupped Mustang's jaw and wiped a dew tear from the corner of his eye with a sweep of his thumb. "It's me – Maes."

Coal eyes sprang wide with realisation and in a flash, Mustang's good hand clasped Hughes' wrist.

"It was a mistake." The words escaped him in a rush of air. "I was still sleeping. I – I -"

Hughes smiled sadly. He rested their clasped hands on the bed sheet. "I know, Roy."

He remained under the scrutiny of his friend's gaze for a few moments before the younger man relaxed and sank back against the pillow, good arm strung over his eyes. Hughes knew that Mustang considered the foible a loss in his battle to prove he wasn't simply a stubborn, grieving commander.

"I was just dreaming. I knew you weren't him – the Sergeant."

"Roy," Hughes peeled Mustang's arm from his face and looked him straight in the eye. "I know."

There was a long silence until Mustang nodded and cleared his throat. In a reflex Hughes began to notice of late, his eyes flickered down to his left hand, as though checking that his fingers were still missing. Those absent digits were evidence that his world had indeed been slammed into darkness. Every day he was disappointed by the sight of his own ruined body, and what it meant.

"You need anything? How's the pain?" Hughes asked, fingering the drip by way of demonstration.

A twisted smile flickered across Mustang's face, and he lifted his broken arm, waving it pitifully. "Same, same."

In sparse moments like these, where the old Mustang – wry and undaunted – sprang to the fore, Hughes squirmed in his own skin. It was as though he was caught up in a dance where he didn't know the steps. He wanted that brazen, ironic man back so much, but knew it was impossibly selfish of him, and so he tripped ungracefully from one step to the next. More worrying still, was the knowledge that he wasn't the only who wanted Mustang back and fighting fit. Hughes knew the Brass was waiting in the wings – he would be naïve to think otherwise – but something about Bormann's intrusion threw him completely. His turmoil did not escape the keen eyes of the alchemist. Though Mustang was in a gentle mood this morning.

"How's Elysia?" he asked, his face genuine but his eyes disinterested.

For a sickening moment, Hughes actually had to place his daughter's face to the name, he was so caught up in his own musings.

"She's fine," he answered distractedly at first, before repeating, "She's fine. Gracia sends her love."

"She didn't send any solid foods while she was at it, no?" He grinned up at Hughes with a hint of pleading. "_She_ wouldn't keep me on this diet of baby food and narcotics, that special woman of yours."

A real huff of laughter escaped Hughes, but immediately his face sourced. The dog tag burned in his pocket.

"Roy," Hughes ventured, absently taking the smaller man's hand. He had started doing that a lot of late, but if it bothered Mustang at all, he didn't say. "Do you know a Martin Bormann?"

It were as though all the heat was sucked out of the room at the mention of that name. Mustang's fingers twitched in Hughes' clutch.

"Yes," he said simply.

"He was here. This morning. Just now." Green eyes searched for a reaction, and Mustang's frozen features did not disappoint.

With a sigh, Hughes continued. "He's dangerous."

Mustang laughed bitterly, as though Hughes had just said the most obvious thing in the world. Perhaps he had. "Yes."

"Tell me."

Mustang pulled in a deep breath, his tight jaw marking the pain in his chest, and pushed it out again through bared teeth. He closed his eyes, bruised eyelids registering his flashing thoughts like the needle on a seismometer. When he opened them again, he spoke.

"You obviously don't remember him, but Bormann has been embedded in the forces for a long time – since Ishbal, in fact. He's a back-of-house man; I don't believe he's made the press once in his career. He rubbed shoulders with the likes of Gran, but never got too close. I imagine he needed to leap frog his loyalties according to how the politics were lying. We've seen a lot of names disappear from the senior ranks, Hughes, but Bormann has always remained. He's like a parasite: he survives long after his host is dead and buried. That's our first lesson about him.

"Towards the end of Ishbal, he was on the team that engineered the 'crush cars'. If I had to call it, I would say he was at the centre of the whole bloody thing."

Everyone who picked up a newspaper in the last ten years knew what a crush car was. In the later months of the rebellion, with thousands of refugees to tend to, the military wanted a 'soft solution' to the problem of numbers. The Fuhrer commissioned a team of scientists and mathematicians to find a solution. In the end, they calculated the optimum number of people that could be crushed into a train carriage to ensure at least a third would die in transit. It was a terrifying success.

"You cannot let that man near me again, Hughes. Whatever he's planning... he's a brilliant tactician, better than me-"

"Impossible," Hughes said, his wry comment shaded by a grimace.

Mustang fixed him with a solid stare. "He is a machine, Hughes. He _is_ better than me because he has _no depth_ to his tactics, nor limit to his evil. That's our second lesson. I don't care who it is: post a guard. I don't want him near me again."

Hughes scrubbed a hand across his mouth, sucking in a bracing breath. "I'm not sure where we stand now, guard or not. He has the Fuhrer's backing, Roy." It sounded like a confession. "They want you back on the front."

"Avenging deaths that haven't even been proven yet," Mustang said, as though finishing Hughes' sentence. "They're enthusiastic – you have to credit them with that. I'm still pissing into a tube and they've set my boots out for me. It's obscene. If only they were this keen to find my men – you amongst them, Hughes."

It was like a slap. Every morning, _every_ morning it came to this. Hughes felt that same burning in his pocket again. _Those deaths have been proven_, he thought. _Their absence is proof enough, my sorry, dear friend._

"Roy," he said, noting the man's newly ragged breathing. "I have something – something I think you should see."

"If it's another damn telegram from a weeping general, then I'm not int-"

Hughes placed the dog tag on the small metal locker that sat beside the bed. Time froze, the _air_ froze. Mustang struggled to sitting, though he managed to move some way across the narrow bed and away from the locker.

"What is that?" he hissed.

Hughes tried to calm his breathing. "Pick it up, Roy."

Mustang appeared horrified at the prospect, his wide eyes looking down on the tag as if it was about to leap up and bite him.

"No!" he wheezed.

"You asked for this," Hughes said, his voice calm but his body trembling.

He gestured to the tag, eyebrows raised in expectation. _There is kindness in this_, he told himself.

Painfully slowly, Mustang reached for the tag. He transferred it to his bandaged left hand, and fingered the cool, worn shape with the fingers of his right. Flipping it over, he saw his tragedy:

_HA656111_

The world shrank about him as his heart tried to beat its way out of his chest. He saw that tag through different eyes, dangling inches from his face as blonde hair fell about his cheek; cool against his skin despite the warmth of her.

Mustang's reaction was no surprise to Hughes. His Riza. His rare and precious thing had been burnt into the sod. He would not, _could_ not believe it.

"I don't believe you," Mustang whispered and replaced the tag.

Hughes looked at the slip of tin, and at the black earth that still clung between each tiny, metal ball of the chain.

"This is what you wanted. This is proof, Roy."

"It's just tin."

"With her name on it."

Eyes just barely containing rage flashed at Hughes. "Did Bormann give that to you?"

"It's her tag, Roy."

A fit of coughing stopped Mustang's retort before he even started. He recovered and sighed, and Hughes could hear the air cut a ragged path across his worn throat. The older man leant forward finally to retrieve the tags. They scraped horribly across the steel surface, the noise prompting Mustang to close his eyes and turn his head slightly with a wince. Hughes' snatched his hand away as if he had been burnt.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Mustang's lips shaped themselves to a wry sickle that could never be confused with a smile. "You're apologising for picking things up now. Do I make you that nervous?"

Anger flared in Hughes' breast at the petulant comment but he pushed it down, far, far down to where it simmered in his belly. The man had been jettisoned by fate; cut afloat from the people he loved the most. He needed space to be whatever kind of prick he wanted to be.

"Yes," Hughes answered softly, "you do."

Mustang ran his hand through his short hair and lay back on the bed again. "You can go now."

"Roy..." Hughes soughed. "Roy, please."

Suppressing a groan of pain, Mustang turned on his side, showcasing the stark black wounds that cut across his scalp. "I get it," he spoke with his back turned, his voice so low that Hughes had to strain to hear. "We have," he took a moment to shape his thoughts, "reached an impasse. I'm tired. You can go."

Hughes patted Mustang's back twice then stood and straightened out his uniform, leaving the dog tag on the locker. He felt faint as he made his way to the door, knowing he had one last thing to say before leaving the room. He turned back, only to see that Mustang's back was to him again – he had shifted to face the window.

"I want to bring you good news one of these mornings, Roy, but I can't. I'm sorry. The state service is on Wednesday. You've been granted medical leave from the funeral. No one will judge you for not being there."

He was met with a silence that said, _I wouldn't go even if I could_. His belief would not allow him to, Hughes knew that much.

He shook his head, sombre and slowly, and stepped outside into the bright corridor. As he closed the door behind him, he heard the bed creak and that same scraping noise of metal on metal.

It was a savage sound, hope tempered by cruel reality.

Turning away, Hughes was once again stopped short by an unexpected figure at Mustang's door. He could have cried.

"Ed."

* * *

Thanks chaps xx


	4. Towards Darkness

**Disclaimer: **I don't own FMA.

Thanks to **Wordswithout **for betaing – wonderful!

Thanks also to all the kind words of support throughout – muchly, muchly, muchly appreciated.

Thankee!

Onwards!

* * *

_Amestrian Midlands, 12th October 1915_

_Vertigo. Your faithful posse. Towards darkness._

_

* * *

_

The Verso Nerezza line. A steel wound cleaving Southern Amestris in two.

Crossing nineteen district councils and forging a stunning path through the Gortgonis Mountains, it was proof that Amestris was truly a jewel State of invention and engineering; the envy of every nation of the World.

In the biting cold of an early autumn morning, The Salamanca – Amestris' oldest running military train – pulled out of Central's Haymarket station; its journey begun on the formidable line south. Youths were still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes as they seated themselves, while more experienced soldiers shifted their kit bags on their shoulders and greeted old comrades with cordial nods and winks. Few eyes failed to notice Mustang's small team, sombre and tight-lipped, slip onto one of the foremost carriages.

For eleven hours, The Salamanca steamed across flat country side and hilly midlands, and then, with sixty-two men finally settled into something like comfort, it broke down. Right in the middle of crossing the country's largest river – The Great Volga.

None were too impressed, least of all Jean Havoc.

"Of all the goddamn places for this heap of junk to quit and die," he groused, his words muffled by a crumpled cigarette.

Fuery peeled his eyes away from the window, fed up straining to see the engineers at work ahead. "I can't see Mustang but...," He glanced back out. "It looks like _they_ think they're going to get it working again."

Breda snorted. "If they don't fall and drown in the Volga first."

"Most likely," Falman glanced up from a pristine field manual, "they wouldn't drown. From this height one can assume they would die on impact. Broken neck probably. Or ruptured organs. Maybe even a -"

A book slammed shut and stopped the chatter. Amber eyes fixed on the men one by one.

"Can I recommend a different topic of conversation?" Hawkeye suggested quietly, though her eyes conveyed a loud and very clear: shut it. "You could stretch your legs, go and check on the others."

Havoc spun his lighter. "The others..." He stood and bent his lanky frame to stare through a porthole window into the carriage behind them. "What are these guys like, anyway, Hawkeye? Seem a bit soft to me."

Hawkeye lifted the register by her side and flicked through it, eyes darting from name to name. "A broad outfit: some Ishval vets, a few from the Northern Territories ready for the warm change. A number of fresh faces – high achievers though, from the looks of things." She nodded a gentle assent and passed the register to Havoc who slouched in beside her.

"What about General Vought?" Fuery asked, taking his seat next to Falman, who cast a possessive glance at his arm space on the bench. "You served under him didn't you, Breda?"

"Seconded for about three weeks a few years back," Breda answered, shrugging. "He was okay, I guess. Strict as hell and a real tight-ass sometimes, but alright, yeah."

"A tight-ass in command, huh?" Havoc grinned. "I hate to say 'speaking of which', Hawkeye, but what does the Chief make of him?"

Hawkeye deftly side-stepped Havoc's poor attempt at a joke without so much as a roll of her eyes. She was growing.

"The Colonel might not like the General much, but he respects him as a soldier. His record from the West is sterling." She pressed her lips together a moment. "He has hard policies but... he seems essentially a decent commander. Suspicious of alchemists."

With a few silent nods, the team calmed again. Only the crisp sound of Falman leafing through his manual disturbed the silence. An early evening fog had risen up from the river and pressed itself against the train, providing a denser quiet – a chalky haze that swallowed all life and colour. A few spindly trees waved back from the banks, dark fingers scratching at the bright grey of the sky. It was true what everyone said, the Midlands really were bleak.

After another twenty minutes, the front carriage door swung open, admitting a cold burst of air that whipped up the dust on the gangway. A windswept Colonel stepped in and shoved the door closed behind him. He stood a while, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. The fog pressed closer and the gnarled trees vanished.

"Sir?" Hawkeye asked, leaning round her seat to look back at him.

"Nothing I can do," he said, voice tight. He removed his fingers and blinked a few times, over-damp eyes squinting at the harsh lights. "If the engineers can't tell me what's wrong, then I can't fix it."

He pushed himself off the door and walked back to his seat opposite the two blonds, slipping out of his coat as he went.

"You shouldn't have gone out at all, Sir. They would have called if they needed you, I'm sure," Hawkeye said.

Mustang nodded in a '_yeah, yeah_' fashion as he sat down, throwing his coat over himself. With a sniff and a shuffle farther into the bench, he leant his brow against the cool window. A short, pleased mew escaped him.

"Sir?"

His right boot twitched and his hand appeared from the coat to scrawl a childish '_shhh..._' in the condensation. The points of ellipsis were picked out with three definite prods of his finger.

"Sir..." she scolded. Falman buried his nose deeper in his book.

Watery eyes glanced up at her through an especially unruly fringe. He smiled weakly. A sort of private smile that made Havoc suddenly curious about the view out the other window.

"I'm _fine_, Lieutenant," he said as lightly as he could. "Just a headache."

Hawkeye wasn't overly content with the claim, but she supposed that it would have to do. Neither her nor her superior were particularly strong at admitting when they were feeling unwell, or anxious, so she had scant grounds to criticise his attempted nonchalance. Still though, it wasn't a back rub at a day spa that brought on his migraine.

For the last nine days, he had obsessed over the array he had known by heart for years: first sketching it repeatedly on page after page, then tracing it, then drawing it blind – left-handed and right. Paperwork got pushed to the side in favour of tattered handbooks and notes from Ishval. The charcoal smudge under his eyes grew darker as his skin grew paler, and his coffee trips were fast becoming a half hourly event. Even the team got a touch: Fuery sentenced to entire mornings at the firing range, and Falman given no less than seven different field manuals to revise. Breda's diet was suddenly the subject of less than subtle ridicule, which the Lieutenant – to give him his dues – accepted with admirable humour.

Certainly, the Colonel always refreshed before an assignment – would remain on the parade grounds practicing long after other staff had retired for the evening, sending columns of fire tearing across the grit. More mature now though, he tried to take care of himself, to make sure that he was at his peak when they were deployed. But not this time. This was different. Something about this mission was eating at him.

The train shunted once and started rolling forward. Everyone but Mustang sat up straighter, eyes wide, in the hope that they were finally on the move again. A beat later, the shuddering died and they crawled to a stop once more.

Havoc threw his head into his hands, crushing his cigarette. "Goddamn shitty piss, bucket of a mother-"

"Lieutenant!" Hawkeye warned, seeing the shadow of someone approaching the door. The Lieutenant offered a whimper and the squashed remains of his smoke by way of vindication.

A stoney face peered through the window and the brass handle turned.

Standing well over six foot, General Vought sailed into the room and surveyed the team with a keen eye. They stood and saluted sharply, each making a good play of hiding their raised hackles. Mustang remained seated with his back to him, head still leaning against the window and right hand cupping his eyes. An uncomfortable air snaked into the room and coiled around the silence. Fuery coughed once.

"Colonel?" Vought queried, indignation laced with mild concern.

Mustang's eyes shot open. He was on his feet in a split second, the stationary train providing no account for his untidy salute and slight stumble. Hawkeye and Havoc fought their instincts to catch him by the elbow.

"Sir," he snapped, then stepping forward slightly, made an odd motion, as though he needed to get water out of his ears. "You're – is everything okay, General?"

Vought's blue eyes didn't shift from Mustang's. He nodded, just so, and the alchemist dropped his hand at ease. Though 'ease' seemed something of an exaggeration given the circumstances. Neither Havoc nor Hawkeye had forgotten the General's cutting words from the Tolven meeting. Mustang was nothing but a brat – a cocky upstart – to men like Vought, and in the older man's defence, that was precisely the image the Colonel had been industriously forging of himself: a small dog, yipping hungrily for any promotion he could get. Not a threat, no, a run-of-the-mill sycophant. The perfect subterfuge.

"I've already spoken with the engineers, Sir. They're still assessing the -"

Mustang swallowed the remainder of his sentence as Vought held up his hand. The atmosphere cooled even further, and without the steady beat and hammer of the train moving, the hush was deafening. Hawkeye straightened her back and tossed her fringe from her eyes, while Havoc fingered his lighter in his pocket, noting with a vague turn of his lip, how massive the General's ears were. Fuery, who had yet to encounter Vought in any regard, glanced at an equally baffled Breda. Falman wanted desperately to get back to his manual; he hadn't even marked his page before he stood up.

Eventually, Vought invited Mustang toward him with a step back and a turn of his arm. The Colonel complied, slipping past his two lieutenants and onto the gangway. He wavered slightly and tipped a finger against the bench to steady himself. He cleared his head with a tight, forced blink. A touch at his elbow drew his attention back to the cool blue of the General's eyes. The man took him by the crook of the arm.

"And here I am: ears chewed off me with stories of your legendary cool, Mustang," said Vought, searching for the lie in Mustang's response. "Mmm?"

"Vertigo, Sir. Dizziness. I don't travel well," Mustang answered. He eased his arm from Vought's hold. "Standing on a windblown, 300 foot bridge doesn't much help either."

"Nothing to do with the fact that you've been holed up in headquarters from dawn to dusk this last few days, no?" the man said through his smile.

Suspicion darkened Mustang's features like an eclipse. Hawkeye shifted.

"Ha – didn't imagine for a second that I was watching you as closely as you were watching me, did you, Mustang?" He turned to Breda. "Hello, Lieutenant. Your Colonel might want to consider a different scout. Redheads are _so_ conspicuous. Not to mention the fact you bear an uncanny resemblance to the young corporal who burnt a hole in my carpet back in '09." He tapped a finger against his temple. "Never forget a face."

Breda glowed a festive shade of crimson, but to his credit, kept his chin held high. Havoc, less able to cope with tense situations, ducked his smirk behind the high collar of his uniform.

Mustang cleared his throat. He started slowly. "Sir, allow me to -"

"Colonel, please," Vought interrupted. "Spare me the silver tongue, won't you?"

The alchemist nodded warily. His pocket-watch burned against his thigh.

"Do you think you could manage the walk to my private suite, Flame? Spying on me notwithstanding, I thought we might have a little – chat. Just you and I." He bent so that their noses were almost touching. "For a flashy little sod, your comments at our first meeting have given me some food for thought."

In two strides, the man had covered the distance back to the door and pushed it open. Mustang was under no illusion that regardless of whether he could or not, he _must_ manage the walk back to the General's suite. Clearly some new nugget of information had fallen into the man's lap since their final strategic meeting in Central, another tete-a-tete contentious in itself. His thoughts darkened with the memory of Bormann, quiet and artful, spectating from the corner.

Though it wasn't quite necessary, he ducked under Vought's outstretched arm and disappeared through the door to the carriage behind them.

Vought pulled in a deep breath and once more seemed to allow himself a quick appraisal of Mustang's team. In the sharp lights of the carriage, his papery sallow skin was shadowed deeply and seemed impossibly bark-like. His large hands, the left banded with a dentedwedding ring, shook.

"Gentlemen," he said after a time. He followed Mustang's retreat for a second then turned his attention to Hawkeye. Assessing eyes ran the length of her before he offered a brisk salute. "Lieutenant."

Without another word, he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.

The train rumbled once. Lights trembled in their fixtures and Falman's manual slipped a little closer to the edge of his seat. His deer-like spring to save it broke the inertia.

"What the _hell_ was that about then?" Havoc asked. The tired bench groaned as he threw himself back on it. Hawkeye sat with a sigh and wiped her forehead.

"The General sure seems to have a problem with Colonel Mustang," Fuery said, fingering a worn splinter on the arm of the bench.

Falman looked to the lights and nodded in agreement.

Havoc '_pffed_' through his teeth. "A problem? Anyone'd have thought Mustang took a dump in his fancy fucking suite."

Plopping himself down with legs kicking out in front of him, Breda pillowed his head back on his arms. "Hey-" He drew the word out. "What's the General doing with a private cabin on this scrap heap anyway?"

A bitter smile shaping his lips, Havoc shook his head. "Typical brass-licking Central. I'd be a millionaire if I could claim for occupational back pain from crappy train rides. We don't even have bunks."

"There's a thing," Fuery said. "I'd have thought the Colonel would've got one too?"

"He did." Hawkeye stared out the window, searching the fog to spy the northern bank of the Volga.

Confusion danced between the unit until Falman, though loathe to leave his study, looked up from his reading. He pointed to a tidy looking case above Hawkeye's head. "But the Colonel's kit's up – oh."

_Always the same_, Havoc thought. He had wondered that morning, why the Colonel had pushed them all so far up the train before boarding – the guy didn't want them to see his name on the brass plate. How could someone dance the line so finely between pompous jerk and martyr? "Idiot," he muttered to himself, and lit up.

Breda planted his feet between Falman and Fuery.

"I didn't know the Colonel had whatchamacallit? A fear of heights."

"Vertigo," Falman supplied. "Many erroneously think of it as a fear of heights but, rather it's -"

"Yeah – vertigo," Breda cut in. Falman bit his lip and fingered the spine of his book.

Hawkeye huffed her hair from her eyes and opened her book. A fear of heights indeed. "He doesn't. He thinks that vertigo sounds innocuous, is all. He takes bad migraines from time to time."

She withheld the details: when he's tired. When he hasn't had enough to eat. When he's agitated. When he's _nervous_.

And they, for their part, knew better than to say anything else of it.

**OoO**

Night had swamped the Volga by the time Mustang left Vought's suite – belly warm from a healthy dose of very expensive brandy (the last few glasses slyly disposed of in a potted plant lest his tongue become too loose).

He fought his manners to ignore a few bushy tailed youngsters who beckoned him nervously as he made his way back up the train. They huffed in his wake, a few braving mumbles of colourful insults _just_ out of earshot. There was a time when he would have turned back to spook them a little, but he had learned by now that this sort of thing was just par for the course.

His thoughts were muddied, stumped and tired when he reached the carriage. Vought, austere and impatient, had some interesting thoughts since their meeting indeed. It had been a puzzle for Mustang, why the man had been absent from Ishbal's roll call. Now he knew why. In his heyday, it seemed that Vought was a roaring canker in the backside of the brass, but rather than send him to a contrived death in the field, they kept him holed up in Central – powerless. Their chat hadn't lessened his anxiety any, but there was some small comfort to be found in the older man's studied doubt of certain things. Mustang, of course, had remained interested, but professionally demure, throughout.

Standing between two carriages, the rising river cold nipped hungrily at Mustang's nose and ears. He buried his chin deep inside his jacket and shivered where he stood, thinking. They weren't quite far enough south yet for balmy evenings and sleeping in one's uniform alone.

Someone giggled inside the cabin. He took one step towards the door and nearly broke his neck when his foot collided with a low box on the floor. A case. His case.

"What?"

The giggling fractured and broke into one loud 'haw' of laughter, most likely Havoc. He tried the door. Locked – of course.

"Okay – very funny." He pressed his mouth to a gap. "Very funny everyone. I've been drinking with the General and now you're all – Sergeant!" He squealed, having spied through the crack, Fuery's spectacled face disappear again behind a seat. "Hey!"

"Shut up already!" someone shouted from a cabin behind him.

Mustang hissed and spun back to the rest of the train, stuttering over an appropriate swear word. He calculated how uncool it would be to call back, 'I'm a Colonel, you know', but in the end decided better of it. He shook the handle again, but it was no good. The door was locked solidly.

"Hah!" He had chalk in his bag.

Bending down, Mustang yanked his case toward him, eyeballing the door as if he could burn a hole right through it with annoyance alone. A piece of paper fluttered to the criss-crossed steel platform.

_'Go to your suite, Colonel Dork. Love, your faithful posse. Ps – don't be grumpy in the morning: 0700 hours.'_

He couldn't say what shocked him more: that he had been called a 'dork' for the first time in his life, or that the postscript was in Hawkeye's neat handwriting.

He shook his head and smiled. Standing with a bracing, burning breath, he tapped the glass once and threw an unseen wave to his team – all of them still in hiding. Though if he wasn't mistaken, _that_ was Havoc trying to watch him via the reflection on his cigarette case.

As he slipped into his decadent suite, Mustang couldn't say that his guys had washed him clean of his troubled thoughts, but neither could he say they hadn't given it their best.

Back in the muted dark of the front carriage, and stretched uncomfortably under a scratchy military issue blanket, Havoc winked across the seats at an intensely smug Hawkeye. She smiled back and curled her toes inside her hard worn leather boots. If she couldn't save her Colonel from his thoughts, then she would damn well save him from a night spent in a shitty cabin.

With eyes closed, she thought of him alone and in drink's warm sleep. She sighed and settled herself with the memory of him.

In the middle of the night, high above the Volga, an engine roared and stirred the river mists. A yawning cry of chilled gears heralded a slow moving forward; the thick grind of old wheels on black iron.

One hearty puff of smoke. The slip and clank of pistons straining; coupling rods pushing, rising, falling. All groaned tight and fog-wet and steady as the night. Another puff and they were away, rolling off the bridge and uphill. Uphill and south – an old contradiction. The Verso Nerezza forging down the map to Aerugo.

A lieutenant dreamt of arms around her, the train's steady churning resonating with the imagined pulse beneath her fingers. A man synonymous with noise and light.

The Verso Nerezza line. In old Aerugonian: towards darkness.

* * *

_Central City, 1st November 1915_

_The nature of truth. A stargazer wondering. Something to look out for._

_

* * *

_

All gone. That's what the papers had said. That's what Hughes had said too. All gone except for a colonel, a mystery and a bunch of scorched dog tags.

Ed blew on his hands and hopped up and down on the balls of his feet. How long had it been since he left Hughes? Forty minutes? An hour?

Had he even said 'good bye'?

The ordinarily jovial man was absent as surely as Mustang's men were. Collar crooked and glasses a little smudged, Hughes had sat opposite Ed in the hospital canteen and recounted as much as he could. He apologised throughout, for not having told Ed sooner – and personally. In a childish way, he had hoped, he said, that the boys would never know. Ed couldn't be certain, but he didn't think the Inspector had mentioned Elysia once.

Oh god – had he even asked about Elysia?

_You should go alone, Ed, _Hughes had said. _The Col – _Roy –_ and I, we're... you should go alone._

Hughes had smiled then, and Ed struggled to imagine anything sadder than the shallow turn of those dry lips.

A repetitive 'squeak squeak' of approaching hospital shoes broke Ed from his agitated musing. A nurse passed him and threw back a suspicious glare. Ed glared back, restraining himself enough not to stick out his tongue at the guy. Barely.

Sparked into a new burst of resolve, the young alchemist made the same march back to the Colonel's room he had made six times already since leaving Hughes. He paused, hand poised in the air, and swallowed a thick breath that nicked at his throat. Thoughts of a Mustang he didn't know, pale and shaking on the other side of the door, crowded him. His new found bravery evaporated and his hand dropped.

How in the world, was he going to do this? How in the known world could he possibly face the man on the other side of that door?

Mustang was there. Alone. Forever.

The last three days were a blur. First the newspaper flung in front of him by a keening Al. Then the lone journey to Central, teeth chattering with some unprecedented, gnawing grief. Then stepping numb off the train at Central Station, he thought of Al, forging on by himself in the East. A boarding house. A lady with a bad lisp handing him a key. A broken street lamp. Webbed frost on the ground. A dog barking. All fragile memories, strung together with fish wire until he met Hughes outside Mustang's room.

Then time slowed once more and reality slammed into him like an icy wave. He never knew before that loss had so many faces; a mythological many-headed beast snapping at its fraught victims. Mustang aside, Ed had yet to unpack his own grief. Mustang's team, every single one of them, had burrowed into his heart and settled there. And then there was Hawkeye: dutiful, quiet and true... He shook his head.

"Excuse me," a voice said.

The alchemist pivoted and was faced with a young orderly. Pretty green eyes squinted at him like he had three heads.

"Excuse me," she repeated, and shifted her tray laden with brown hospital food. "You're the Fullmetal Alchemist, aren't you?"

Ed nodded dumbly. She smiled, an excited sigh escaping her.

"You're here for the Colonel, I bet," she said. "He's in there. I've been his orderly for most of his stay."

His stay. Like a vacation.

Again, Ed found himself nodding as though his head were fixed, puppet-like, to a piece of string. _Great_, he thought, _another alchemist enthusiast. _She would probably sneak the press onto the ward in hospital robes if given half the chance.

"This is his food," she said, thrusting the tray towards Ed who recoiled with his nose scrunched. "It stinks," she laughed nervously. "It always stinks. You should know, huh? The papers – they said you've been banged up a few times yourself. Not that I read stuff like that much – I, well, you know. You know how Central is. Everyone's always talking about everybody."

Ed smiled awkwardly and scrubbed a hand up his neck. "Is he... awake? The Colonel?"

The girl bit her lip and balancing the tray on one arm, checked her watch. "He should be, it _is _his breakfast time," she said. Her face soured. "Though it's hard to tell. He's always looking out that damn window like a caged bird. Sometimes he just ignores us, you know?"

_I'm not surprised,_ thought Ed.

"Hey...," he said, stepping towards her, the faintest shade of flirtation in his eyes. "The Colonel's a guy kind of used to his luxury. A spoilt sort of man. Demanding. A real ass if he doesn't get what he wants..."

The orderly nodded and leant in conspiratorially, the tray pressing against Ed's chest. He curled his fingers around the rim, his skin brushing against hers. He gave the tray a little tug towards him.

"This all you got?" he asked.

The girl sized him up and tugged the tray back, smirking. "It's all the Colonel's allowed. He shouldn't really have solids. So the doctor says. We only took him off his supports about half an hour ago. Plus -" She bent right over the tray to whisper to him. A few blondish strands of her ponytail fell into the brown sloop. With some effort, Ed ignored it. "Dr Mackie says he's a mean old heel, and everyone here thinks he's nuts -"

Ed yanked the tray from her. She stumbled forward with a sharp gasp. Then, too stupid to be affronted, started giggling.

Ed shoved the tray towards her again. "I'm _asking_ you," he said slowly. "If you can't just break the rules and fetch me something a little more... humane... for him?"

Gingerly, the girl took the tray back, unsure now of what to make of the famous alchemist.

Attempting to recover the schmoozing, Ed laughed shyly. He inched towards her. "Mustang's my CO, okay? I'm duty bound to take care of him or my next appraisal will be rubbish. Do me a favour and fetch me anything you can: toast, fruit... anything. Huh?"

The girl trailed her toe in a small circle on the floor and looked uncertainly down the corridor. She twisted her lips and hummed a familiar ditty, weighing up the request. Then with a toss of her head and a smile that turned Ed's stomach, she winked and backed off down the hallway.

"Give me _five_ minutes," she called, leaving Ed alone in the corridor once more.

Ed's mind turned to Hughes again. He saw the spectacled man hunched far over his coffee, warming his hands on both sides of the mug. He was older looking somehow since Ed saw him last. He wore a darker expression, one Ed had seen on other soldiers, but never on Hughes. Comparing him and Mustang, Ed never would have guessed the older man had served in Ishbal. The Colonel was so shrewd and cold, hewn almost from the stone with which headquarters had been built – a born soldier with the memory of war clear in his visage. Whereas Hughes... What could you say about a man who owned a purple velvet shirt? How the hell had a guy like that served in Ishval? The pair were like theatrical masks – one grinning, the other sour: a perfect balance. Until now.

"Scrambled eggs and toasted rolls!"

Ed hid his grimace then turned to the girl. She was standing proudly holding a tray full of toasted bread, yellow eggs, juice and fruit. Her grotesquely straight teeth were blinding.

Ed strode forward and snapped the tray from her. "Thanks."

"No prob-" she started, then halted herself, injured by Ed's retreating back. "Hey!"

A calming breath kept Ed's words at bay. "What?" he asked as simply as he could.

She sighed, but there was something less innocent in those green eyes now. Here was a girl too sweet to be wholesome. "Some of the papers said they were lovers – Mustang and that Hawkeye woman. You think it's true, Mr Elric?"

Shadows crawled into Ed's vision, hot and black and bursting with what... _unfairness?_

He didn't know why he said what he did, but it seemed right. It seemed like something Mustang would say.

"It's Major Elric, miss."

He opened the door and stepped in.

A thin curtain floated on the in-blown breeze.

_You shouldn't encourage him, Ed, _Hughes had whispered from behind his mug. _We all want to believe that there's some good left in this, but... whatever he says, you shouldn't encourage him._

The room was empty. Ed almost dropped the tray. The room was empty! His eyes darted from corner to corner. From the crumpled sheets to the window open slightly to the breeze. Taking a small step back, Ed checked the number on the door – it was definitely the Colonel's. So where the hell was he?

He wouldn't...

A strained grumble sounded on the other side of the bed.

Ed breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't.

The smallest glimpse of black fuzz rose past the bed and sank back again. Then again, up, and back beneath the mattress. Each manoeuvre was accompanied by a soft grunt of exertion.

Ed set the tray on a plain metal trolley and inched around the bed.

"Eh... Colonel...?"

The motion stopped with a truncated moan.

Continuing to the edge of the bed, Ed didn't quite know what to expect. Then again, expectation, experience – what place did they have in circumstances like these? He took a deep breath but it did little to quiet his heart from pounding against his ribs.

"Fullmetal?" Mustang asked, shocked – stunned into stillness.

He was lying, back flat against the floor and knees bent, frozen in place at the beginning of a sit-up. His arms folded behind him, his bandaged left hand was resting at his temple in a could-be salute.

He panted and licked chapped lips.

Eyes locked, and neither said a word. Traffic thrummed outside, peppered with barked calls, and the strange wheeze of a distant piper in the military cemetery. A pair of pigeons cooed on the windowsill, relaxing as they were in the bright bitter day.

"Mustang...," A car backfired and Ed fell forward. "Are you out of your goddamn _mind_?"

Before he really had a chance to think about it, Ed was in a crouch next to his commander, hoisting him up by the armpits with teeth bared. Mustang – equally lost but as yet incapable of movement – went rigid in the boy's grasp, cast arm bent out in a rough 'L'.

Ducking and shouldering, Ed wrestled Mustang into the bed, surprised by his own raw, _possessive_ worry. All the while, the injured Colonel stayed silent and stiff as a board. It never occurred to Ed how often the man must have been scolded and wrangled back into his hospital bed, loose cotton trousers slipping from underfed hips and his heart quaking.

Ed's automail fingers uncurled themselves from Mustang's wrist and he straightened his back, chest heaving with hard labouring and upset breaths. He bit his lip, not able to look the man in the eye. He knew he should have been full of _How are you?s_ and _I'm sorrys _but all he could manage was a –

"Well shit." A cough, then again: "Shit."

He wiped his brow forcefully and sat next to Mustang's outstretched leg. The Colonel's foot was hanging limply off the edge of the bed but Ed's frantic passion had vanished and he no longer had the courage to correct it.

"Edward -"

"Look," Ed bit out, sharper than he had intended. "I just didn't expect – I thought you'd still be hooked up and -"

"I was, but I – the -" he faltered. "I needed to show – well I – I to be strong. I can't lay around while -"

Ed didn't want him to say it; didn't want him to speak about the team just as Hughes had warned he would. His words rushed out of him in a frenzied hush. "You scared me is all."

Mustang stopped, dark eyes flitting to the window for a moment. He gave his head one tired, loose shake, like an old Clydesdale chasing flies from its face.

"What are you doing here, Fullmetal? Edward..."

Ed finally looked down at the man, then away again sharply. _Never_ in his life, had he seen eyes like _that_.

"Fuck," he whispered. His heart pounded in his chest.

Mustang shuffled in the bed, and Ed tried his best to remain oblivious to his attempts to hide his bad hand beneath the covers – he really did. In a beat though, his own automail hand was held aloft where it glinted in the cool, low sun.

"No need to be shy," he said with a rueful smile. "You've still got – oh – three fingers and a whole arm on me."

Mustang smiled sadly and pulled his foot back onto the bed. He gestured to his legs with his injured arm. "Don't forget, I've still got both of those," he remarked dryly.

_Good_, Ed thought. _Familiar territory. _

Even as he left Hughes, he had decided that he would not allow himself any shyness with his superior. Everything that had pissed _him_ off when he was injured – fawning, cooing, garish sympathy – he would avoid. He would be strong and light and the opposite of everything Mustang had encountered so far. He would _force_ himself to be as clean and pragmatic as Mustang had shown himself to be in the past.

He stood and drifted across the room, holding onto their precious normalcy as if it was the rarest butterfly.

"I guess you've been laying there feeling so sorry for yourself you haven't even noticed the smell."

"The -" Musang's soft voice broke off in a bout of coughing, so severe, Ed half expected to find a lung on the bed. "The smell?" he managed after a time.

Wearing the biggest grin he could muster, despite the churning in his belly, Ed turned and proffered the tray. Steam was still rising from the fluffy eggs.

"How – Ed, how did you manage this?" Mustang was staring, ravenous, at the plate.

Ed grinned and dragged the trolley towards them, resting the plate on it again. "There was some dumb orderly... she wasn't good for nothing though. I sort of expected her to come back with a yoghurt or something."

He picked up the knife and fork and cut into the toast. Then spearing some egg, handed the fork to Mustang. Like a curtain falling, the Colonel's face changed suddenly from wide-eyed wonder to sour indignation.

"I can feed myself, Fullmetal," he said darkly. "I'm not an invalid."

Ed rolled his eyes. "Look, I've been here, remember? How were you planning on cutting up your bread with that poxy thing?"

Mustang looked at his cast arm. "I'd manage," he mumbled.

"After ten minutes, maybe, but believe me, Colonel; cold eggs are harder to swallow than your pride."

Mustang fidgeted a little and eyed up the fork again, unsure. Ed tutted and chanced a light touch to guide Mustang's hand closer to his mouth. He felt the slightest tremble there, imperceptible as it was to his eye.

"Besides, it's not like I'm doing the 'choo-choo' thing and shoving the food in your mouth, is it?"

Doing little to hide his suspicion and displeasure, Mustang gently took the first forkful and after a few slow chews, audibly sighed his relief at finally getting real food.

"It's strange," the man said, taking the next fork load from Ed. "I haven't eaten eggs since I was a kid."

Ed took the fork back and reloaded it. "Oh?"

"I hate eggs," he laughed, the bright sound seeming odd coming from that dark being. "But these are great. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose."

With that, Mustang's eyes made a strange jump to the window, but he quickly corrected himself, closing them a moment to reel back whichever thought had disturbed his calm. Ed sat further forward and retrieved the fork, filling it once more.

"Well," he smiled, rocked again by those alien, aged eyes. "Next time I'll be sure to show you the menu."

The pair continued with their strange ceremony, chatting about Ed's recent excursion, until the tray – fruit and all – was emptied. All that remained of the breakfast was a brittle bread roll that rested on the older alchemist's lap.

In the companionable quiet, Ed stole a glance at Mustang, trying and failing to re-imagine him before this event. In the rich blue of his uniform, the man carried himself as though he were ten feet tall, and so Ed now wondered how he had never realised how slight Mustang actually was. Here, with his delicate Xingese countenance and a compact form more befitting of an acrobat than a soldier, Mustang looked utterly different. Ed tried to tell himself that it was because he was sitting awkwardly in a hospital bed, or that it was because of the paler hue of his skin, but really, he understood it was something deeper than that. He had been told on more than one occasion how similar he was to the Colonel, but he always laughed it off; sniggered at the ludicrousness of the claim. It took seeing Mustang brought low and vulnerable to realise how similar they really were. Wouldn't Ed too, have been out of the hospital bed stupidly attempting sit-ups if he thought it would help him be strong enough to restore Al?

"You really shouldn't have come, Ed." Mustang's voice was quiet and ragged. It sounded like he was going to have another coughing fit at any second.

"There's gratitude for you..."

How quickly the mood can change. "That's not what I meant," Mustang bit out. He coughed a few times and recovered himself with a long draught of juice. "I sent you away for a reason, Fullmetal."

Ed had known, naturally, that Mustang's motives for his deployment in the East were less than honest. It was only when he read the news that he realised what a terrible kindness the Colonel had paid him. To say he was furious was an understatement, but his anger got packed away in that same box his grief had.

"At least you're being honest, I guess," Ed said. He watched as a frustrated Mustang began scraping at the bread roll on his lap, crumbs spilling out over the light blue of his hospital trousers. He ventured, almost in a whisper, his next comment. "We could have helped."

A large lump got torn out of the roll. "You couldn't have."

"You don't know that. Hughes said you don't remember any-"

Mustang's thumb was tearing frantically at the bread now, thick crumbs spilling out and off the edge of the bed. "_Hughes said, Hughes said_," he mimicked viciously. Ed had never heard, never even imagined, the Colonel speaking like that. In a flash, his eyes which had been sullen and impossibly deep, were bright, shallow and _mean_. "Hughes doesn't know what he's talking about, and neither do you. You're free to talk about me as much as you like, but don't carry those lies in here – they won't be entertained."

Floundering in the silence that followed Mustang's attack, Ed grabbed hold of the first sentence that came whirling into his mind.

"If you could do it again," he started, the weight of that diabolical gaze on him still. He swallowed. "Would you have sent them away too?"

The man's stare hardened with the tiniest of gasps. As a boy, Ed and Al would run wild on freezing days, hoping that the little pond at the back of their house had frozen over. They would inch across it and flinch horribly in the carnal terror at hearing the dull snap of breaking ice underfoot. That was exactly how Ed felt now.

But after a few impossibly long moments, Mustang's face softened and his eyes drifted down to the hollowed out bread roll on his lap. They snagged there a while. Ed hadn't realised until then how heavily he had been breathing, but now the man's panting filled the whole room.

"I'm so-"

"No," Mustang whispered. He looked at Ed and smiled. "No, Ed. I learnt a long time ago to stop asking if they were sure they wanted to follow me. They've made their minds up about me as much as I have about them. To question their choice... it's insulting."

Ed nodded, recalling each of the team in turn. Mustang's men were loyal beyond reason, and Ed had no doubt that even if they _were_ sent away, they would only cajole, beat and weasel their way back to him somehow. There was an imperishable gravity to that team, a galaxy in which Mustang was the sun.

"What do you think?" Mustang asked so suddenly Ed leapt in his seat.

This was dangerous. The ice was growing thinner.

The boy licked his lips. More silent seconds passed. "I guess it doesn't really matter what I think, Mustang," said Ed eventually.

There was a subtle, tidal shift in the mood, one that begged for Ed to continue. Could it be, that he – Ed, was the first person to assume that the truth of the matter was less important than what Mustang actually _chose_ to believe. But wasn't this too, exactly what Hughes had warned him about? Was hope like a small shrub, needing only the smallest crack in the concrete in which to live and grow? Ed couldn't be sure, but equally, he couldn't deny Mustang his audience. Hadn't Mustang given him the same hope to dream of the impossible – nourished and supported his hunt for the Philosopher's Stone?

Ed's gaze sank to rest on the hollow bread roll. "I've met Truth face to face, and it makes less sense to me now than it ever did. I used to think the truth was something immovable, but now I guess I'm learning that it's as varied, impressionable and vulnerable as we humans are. So... it really doesn't matter what I think, Mustang. It really doesn't..."

Mustang inhaled, his chest expanding slowly with the ragged intake of air, and as he exhaled, it seemed he had accepted Ed's own small, personal truth.

And then he offered his own...

"They're not dead."

After what Hughes had said, and now, having seen Mustang at last, Ed may have jumped at the words. He may even have accepted them with quiet, misguided loyalty, but that wasn't him, and it wasn't Mustang.

Like a mother taking gum from her child's outstretched hand, Ed gently lifted the cored bread from Mustang's loose grasp.

"Okay... alright, Mustang," he said, setting the bread aside. "Whatever your truth is, you better make sure it's the right one – and keep hold of it if it is. God knows it's hard to do."

A nurse knocked and entered, busying herself with the thermostat before nodding a cursory 'hello'. She strode over and pulled the window shut before standing with arms folded, clearly hoping that Ed would get the message and shift it. All the while, Mustang's impossibly black gaze stayed fixed on Ed, or rather – not quite on Ed – on the words he had just spoken, as though searching for the integrity of the statement. A stargazer wondering at a near hopelessly clouded sky.

"Okay, Colonel," the nurse said at last, moving to flank the other side of the bed. "It's been a long morning, and we need to get you cleaned."

Ed reserved comment with some trouble, trying his best to quell his anger at seeing Mustang's cheeks colour slightly. Had they been speaking to him like this all along? Or did the staff feel somewhat justified in treating the maddeningly stubborn Colonel like a child?

As the nurse prattled on, quizzing Mustang on why he was outside his blankets, Ed tidied the little tray, joining in some genuinely funny looks of conspiracy with the Colonel. Who would have thought the usually stoic alchemist could look _so _petulant and ruffled?

The nurse finished filling a small plastic tub with warm suddy water and tested it with her elbow. She sighed and gave Ed a withering, almost put-upon look. The boy stood and stretched indulgently, delighting in how the woman's face darkened at his small rebellion.

He was about to say his 'good bye' to Mustang when the man's eyes widened and he cast a furtive glance to the nurse. He looked for the world like he just remembered he had stolen her cat. The Colonel had recalled something, that was for certain, and fixing his coat about him, Ed watched with interest as the man marshalled his thoughts – his pale face doing well to hide the whirring of his mind. At last, he sat forward a little and cleared his throat. The nurse worked on, fixing a blood pressure metre to his arm.

"There's something I meant to tell you to look out for," he said, an overly flippant tone colouring his words.

Ed joined in the charade, secretly beaming with himself at how quickly he caught onto Mustang's drift. "Oh?"

"This time of the year...," he rested the lead weight of his scrutiny on Ed. Danger marked every line on his face. "Is a perfect time to stargaze... but... but it's always best to get out of Central for the finest views. I don't suppose you're about to start listening to me now though..."

Ed smiled bitterly and shook his head. The nurse glanced up, now curious of the new slope to the conversation.

"There are certain stars in particular that you want to be especially vigilant of: Nekkar, Nunki, Acrux...," He paused in his list, even went to the effort of searching the ceiling for the remaining 'stars'. "Mira... Regulus, Okul... Betelgeuse... I can't advise you enough, Ed: watch out for them."

Ed nodded.

Mustang continued quietly, and carefully. "Best check out the last star first and work back, Ed – things sometimes make more sense that way... I'm serious, I really think you should look out for them."

Ed made his way to the door, noting with some pleasure that the nurse had gone back to her work and was packing away the metre, ignorant of their cypher. "I'll see you tomorrow, Colonel. I'll make sure to keep a good eye out for that."

_That_, not _those_. He let the Colonel know that he was understood.

Suppressing a groan, Mustang straightened himself in the bed and smiled, oddly pleased and shy. He waved his farewell. Ed left before he could see the nurse yank the Colonel's hospital shirt off.

Trotting down the corridor, Ed's eager mind worked at putting together Mustang's strange and sudden warning. Ed was always as closed as he could be in Central, well aware that he was on people's radar – especially now that he was here without Al and the Colonel was incapacitated. That Mustang couldn't be explicit in front of the nurse, surely meant that any threat had access to the hospital – that perhaps even the staff were complicit.

_Nekkar – Nunki – Acrux – Mira – Regulus – Okul – Betelgeuse_

He approached the main reception area, bothered by how busy it was. If truth be told, he enjoyed something of the quiet of Mustang's room, and the company within. Yes – the Colonel was difficult, and having met him now, the terrible facts remained the same. His people were still missing, almost certainly dead, and Ed's heart ached when the memory of them came racing back to him. But selfish as it was, something in the way Mustang looked at him, some thin and veil-like shroud of trust had settled over them in those brief few moments – grounded Ed in a way he had never felt before.

It wasn't a turning of the tides, or a case of the shoe being on the other foot – but more... a debt repaid. An equivalent vigil and faith in someone else's insane, inconceivable hope. An _I don't believe it but I believe that you do, and that's enough for now, _that Ed would have cherished were he in the same position. How Hughes would interpret it was another matter entirely, and not one Ed much cared to think about.

"Betelgeuse," Ed whispered, trying to fit it into the night sky. He pushed open the door and stepped into the cold, his first misty breath disappearing into the bright. Was Mustang's code connected to the constellations somehow?

"Mr Elric," a man's voice called.

Ed staggered to a stop, his left leg jarring in the sudden cool.

"Mr Fullmetal, I should say?" the voice called again.

Ed turned and was faced with a slim, handsome man, a little older perhaps than the Colonel. His hair was slicked back against his scalp and his bright eyes were flat and steady in the chill. The man pulled his coat tight so that the collar rested against his chin and stepped close to Ed's side.

"I'm glad I caught you. I heard you would be here, visiting your Colonel. How is -"

"Eh – and _who_ are you?" Ed said, pulling his arm tight against his side to avoid contact with the stranger. He wasn't dressed in a uniform, but he definitely _looked_ military.

The man laughed, throwing his head back in what Ed considered an unnecessary show of lightheartedness – his eyes certainly weren't laughing.

"I heard you were a little rocket. Forgive my rudeness." He held out his hand, grin widening. "I'm a man who has a proposition for you. A way to help Colonel Mustang."

Ed studied him for a long while then puffed out a breath through his nose and started to saunter off. "He doesn't need any help."

"Now, now." The voice sounded right behind him. This man was very light on his feet. Ed turned back and looked down, unsurprised to see expensive leather brogues winking up at him. "I don't think you're in any position to judge, Fullmetal. You _are_ just a child..."

Taking a few assessing glances around him for any other cronies and deeming the coast clear, Ed grabbed the man's coat front. "Just who are you, asshole?"

"Just like Mustang – so defensive," he purred, and Ed was almost waiting for a forked tongue to slip out between his rosy lips. He loosened himself from Ed's grip, tutting at his slightly crumpled collar. "Ah," he sighed, then held out his hand in greeting. "Pleased to meet you finally, Edward Elric. I'm Martin Bormann."

Ed's heart leapt. How could he have been so stupid? He had been overcomplicating Mustang's meaning altogether – a common habit that he should have long since outgrown. The answers, he had to remember, were always simple. It really was as easy as reading the stars backwards.

_Betelgeuse – Okul – Regulus – Mira – Acrux – Nunki – Nekkar... BORMANN._

"Don't be embarassed, Edward. My reputation often proceeds me, and by the look on your face, your darling Colonel has already made me known to you. How kind!" He slapped Ed on the back then snaked his thin fingers around his flesh arm. Somewhere in the city, church bells were ringing. "Now... what's say we have a little chat about this whole affair."

* * *

Thanks chaps! Leave a wee comment if you have the chance. Oui!


	5. The Cassandra Project

**Disclaimer: I don't own!**

**Sorry to everyone for the wait :( Sorry also to disastergirl who had to listen to me whine about my _not_ writing – she's been great! I hope you enjoy this very belated chapter, and hopefully I'll hit my stride again soon... I have reservations about this chapter but I think that's just absence jitters^_^**

**Mega mega mega thanks to the sharp-witted and incredible Kalirush for her beta work. Check her out! xxx**

**Onwards!**

* * *

_Central City, 1st March 1905._

_A compelling vision. For he's a jolly good fellow._

* * *

Roy awoke and rose two hours earlier than required. He completed three circuits of intense stretches, followed by forty minutes of calisthenics. He masturbated disinterestedly, checking himself occasionally in the mirror, then slid into the shower. He took great care to clean every inch of himself, scowling when he noticed an errant hair poking out from the top of his thigh; thick, black and shockingly long. With enviable stealth, this same hair appeared seemingly out of nowhere every month or so. Sometimes he would observe the space for weeks, checking if it had appeared, but it never did. Then, as soon as he had forgotten about it: there it was. He had to admit; its tenacity was enviable. He tugged it out, the corners of his mouth turning down in an impressive frown. He rinsed, dried himself briefly and slipped into his uniform trousers, vest and shirt. He considered shaving but given that it would be a largely ceremonial endeavour – for he'd not yet managed to squeeze out more than a dusting of hair on the curve of his chin – he abandoned the idea.

He crept down the stairs to the kitchen, careful not to rouse any of the previous night's sinners. God knows what his sisters were up to, curled in the arms of men who spent more money in Madame Christmas' than they did on their expensive motorcars. Under penalty of death by his foster mother, at least they managed to keep it quiet last night.

It being just past dawn, only the chief housekeeper, Emilia, was awake, munching quietly on her dry toast. Yesterday evening's crossword was open in front of her, though she had no pen. Roy quirked an eyebrow, failing to grasp the academic value of a crossword puzzle you had no intention of completing. It was certain, Madame Christmas' _Boozy Rouge_ collected more oddballs than it did Cenz notes.

When the woman spotted her mistress' charge, she rose swiftly, clucking and brushing crumbs from her pink, cushioned housecoat.

"Morning, Roy," she said, then tutted. "Your hair's soaking. You'll catch a cold."

Roy yawed and scratched his chest luxuriously. "Impossible. Today, I am invincible."

He spotted her rolling her eyes, which he dutifully ignored, and approached her, placing a kiss on her cheek.

"Good morning, Emilia, light of my life, flower of my meadow, gentle-"

"No need for platitudes, you little rascal. There's bacon under the grill and three yolks in that tumbler by the sink, though god knows how you manage to drink them. If you're so obsessed with being a 'model of masculine vigour', why not grow a moustache?" She pushed him off, and removing the last slice of toast from her plate, offered it to him, hand on hip.

"Can't. It'll make me groggy," he said, picking up the glass and drinking the egg yolks. He felt them slide down his throat: one, two, three.

"A slice of toast?"

"Yes. A slice of toast. All starch: I won't be able to pass anything until after sunset. I hate feeling bloated." He smirked when the caretaker made a face. "Coffee?"

"On the stove. Where it always is."

Roy graced her with a put-upon glance and poured two cups, handing one to her. The two of them leant back with their steaming cups of coffee, right leg folded over left, perfectly matched like two performers about to start their old cash-cow of a double act.

"Are you nervous?" Emilia asked.

A snort. "I'm confident."

Another roll of the eyes. "Of course."

"You know, one day you're going to roll your eyes so far back into your head that you'll be able to see the dawn of mankind."

Emilia grimaced. "And if I roll them forward, will I see the end?"

The pair huffed out sigh-come-laughs, falling into a brief, happy silence.

"Good crossword?" Roy asked, nudging her slightly.

"Thirteen down." She threw her head to the paper.

"Amok," Roy smiled into his cup.

Emilia's expression clearly read 'huh?' before realisation dawned on her. She coughed once and sipped her coffee noisily, stemming her frustration. "How?"

"Morning fine, but frenzied," he recalled the clue, casting black eyes down on her in mock surprise. "You really don't get it? Emilia..."

"I really don't."

"It's quite simple if you just think laterally." He adopted the voice of a classic dunce. "That means 'sideways'."

"Roy-"

"Use some logic... a little experience..."

"Roy Mustang-"

"... because these things often work in patterns, so it's just matter of applying the patterns over the-"

"You really fancy yourself, don't you?"

He grinned. "Me and half of Centr- ah!"

In her younger days, Emilia had played for her school's ladies' rugby team, and she still had a formidable left foot. She deemed it appropriate to put it to use on any given occasion.

She laughed. "Go on, put this stupid, unqualified old maid out of her misery."

Roy opened the grate to the stove, retrieved a greasy slice of bacon and dropped it into his mouth. He chewed thoroughly, taking time to swallow everything before speaking. Meanwhile, Emilia watched him with an expression that ran the gamut from intense fondness to absolute disdain. "Morning is 'am'. Fine is 'OK'. And you know what frenzied means, right?"

"Smart arse. I knew you were trouble from the moment you pissed in Mr Pratchett's suitcase."

Slamming the grate shut with his 'smart arse', Roy offered her another kiss on the cheek. "You love it." He winked. "When I get my State Certification I'll buy you a box of truffles from Tuthbridges, each one saying: 'Emmy. Oh! Emmy – my love, my nanny.'"

"You should brush those teeth before you do anything else," said Emilia, pulling her head back with a mare-like toss.

Roy stared at her for a long few seconds, dark eyes dancing. Such a history they'd had. She, before anyone else, would be honest. He scratched his neck and huffed.

"You think I can do it?" he asked, all smiles gone now.

"We didn't even bother to decorate a 'commiserations' cake." She nodded at the bright green lacquer of the kitchen door. "The next Mustang to walk through there is going to be a major in the Amestrian army. Christmas will slap your behind and give you a feed of whiskey. The younger girls will fight to keep their drawers on at the sight of you. It's likely poor Janey won't survive, you naughty child."

He held her gaze a while, aware of but no longer frightened of the tightness in his chest that had been present since he woke. "I love you," he said simply. He really did. This woman had raised him as much as Christmas had. Like two continents crashing against each other over thousands of years, they'd grown impossibly close. She taught him the value of a friend with conditions; every ounce of love from her, he had earned, and visa versa. Precious. Hard won. It seemed he collected strong women almost as keenly as Vanessa collected minted cufflinks.

"Knock 'em dead, kid," she smirked, but as he turned to go, he was paused by her sharp intake of breath. "Oh Roy-"

"What?" He ran a hand over his mouth and head to check for embarrassing detritus from breakfast.

"No. Your trousers."

He blinked twice and twisted to check the seat of his pants. He gasped. From the join of his thigh to his hips, the right cheek was black and charred. The fringes of a sizeable hole still glowed a cheerful red.

"Oh my god," he whispered, his hand flying to his mouth. "Oh my god."

"It'll be fine!" Emilia blurted, grabbing a damp tea towel and pulling it back to swat his backside.

Roy intercepted her wrist, panic flaring in his eyes. "It won't be fine! These are my only blues!"

"Can't you... _fix_ them?"

Mania had replaced panic as seamlessly as switching reels in a cinema projector. "Fix them? With alchemy? Are you insane? I have about as much material left to fashion a pair of boat trousers. I'm hardly going to trot in there with my ankles showing! Woo them into giving me the certification!"

Emilia, distressed but finding it increasingly hard not to be even a little amused, discharged any giddy energy by trying once more to dampen the growing hole on her master's trousers.

"Stop trying-!" he squealed then quieted when the house creaked, continuing in a hushed, barking whisper. "Stop trying to wipe my arsehole!"

"Stop shouting at me. It's not my bloody fault!"

"Not your fault? Why didn't you tell me!"

"That the stove was hot?"

"Yes!"

Emilia threw the damp towel to the floor and glared up at a youth almost a head taller than her. "Perhaps because I stupidly assumed that a _boy_ who knew thirteen down in the _Central Times _cryptic crossword, and who is supposedly going to 'wow' the military elite of Amestris with his 'Flame Alchemy' would be able to work out that stoves were usually bloody hot!"

Roy opened his mouth and closed it again, swallowing back the eggs who were trying to beat a hasty retreat from his suddenly churning stomach. Emilia with nostrils flaring, regarded him, raised eyebrows screaming: _push me. I dare you._

He placed a bracing hand on her shoulder and bowed his head in thought. "I'm -"

"Morning, Emmy. Morning Roy-boy," Christmas' voice rattled through the kitchen.

Four eyes flew to the woman who lumbered sleepily to the treacherous stove. Christmas, having smelt the bacon from three floors up, jiggled her fingers hungrily and reached for the handle. She withdrew her fingers to her mouth with a gasp.

"Bloody hell, that's hot," she cursed. "Emilia, love. Pass me that towel, would you?" Christmas looked blearily at the clock above the stove then back at Roy. "You'd better get a move on, son. The trams will be packed this time of the morning."

**OoO**

He tried in earnest to ignore the one armed old man sitting next to him. The gentleman had boarded the tram three stops before and had done nothing but stare at Roy from the moment he noticed his mismatched uniform. Having only been issued one pair of standard blues as he was technically still in the academy, Roy – together with Emilia and Christmas – had to make do with the next best thing at their disposal: a pair of navy dress-trousers that had been left behind by some romping general or other. God knows what sins were stained into the as yet unwashed crotch. The choice was either those or any one pair of Roy's casual trousers, all of which were tailored in the current fashion of a high waist with tapered legs, and fashioned in this season's tans, plaids and greys. Maes always did tell him his style was too exclusive. The entire fiasco certainly made him reconsider the wisdom of passing up the academy's 'photo-manipulation' module for being too frivilous and 'bitsy'. Even now he was trying to piece together an array to lighten the material a few shades.

Handsome in his winter years, what set this man apart from most his age and what gave Roy cause for particular discomfort was that the left side of the man's trilby hat was absolutely bedecked with medals of valour. He'd served in every combat of his generation from the Six Years War to the Battle of Pyeong Chang Ro.

Eventually, knowing eyes gleaming, the man spoke. The other passengers looked on, sympathy-shame shaping their faces.

"You an enthusiast or something?" the old man asked.

Roy smiled. Sort of. "Something like that, yes."

"Going to watch the state alchemist examinations? Bookies down the way have good odds at the minute."

Roy caught the man's eyes like a minnow darting through the lighted part of a pool. "Yes." His averted gaze clocked a slug-trail of a stain on the inside leg of his trousers. He suppressed a groan, barely. "Yes."

The tram slowed as it approached Central Parade: Roy's stop.

He stood sharply, and bowed. "Excuse me," he muttered, then bumped and excused himself the whole way to the tram's doors. Hopping off before the tram had fully stopped, he ignored the calls of the conductor as he raced away from the road and towards the main gate.

Nearing the entrance gate, he tugged his papers from his breast pocket, being careful not to dislodge the precious bundle hidden there: his gloves, the means with which he would blaze his way into his future.

Panting, and just managing to keep from stooping over to catch his breath, he laid the papers before the unremarkable looking sergeant. He remembered himself with an exhausted salute.

The grey-haired sergeant's steady eyes traced every detail of every form, including the state-apostilled _Invitation to Assessment _letter. Roy scowled at him disbelievingly as he did so. Didn't this man realise that he was in a hurry? He was harried, ill-dressed and about to take part in the biggest event of his lifetime. Here was clearly another frustrated, low-ranked, middle-aged soldier trying to exercise any power over future officers like Roy while he still could.

"Excuse me, but do you think you could hurry it along a little? My examination is in less than an hour, and I rather think you've seen everything you need to, don't you?"

The man's eyes paused their movement. Almost imperceptibly his fingers tightened on the edges of the documents. He took a deep breath, shuffled and folded them, and handed them back to Roy with a small dip of his head.

"Yes, Cadet Mustang," he spoke softly. "Your paperwork is in order."

Mustang glanced at his watch, for show more than for practicality and reached for his papers. "One's state qualification is hardly something to be taken lightly. Naturally, I have them in order."

"Indeed," said the sergeant, keeping his fingers firmly on the paperwork. Roy gave them an experimental little tug. Nothing.

"May I proceed, sir?"

"You could..."

"Thank you," Roy tried again to remove his papers, but they were stuck fast under the unnervingly long fingers of the strange sergeant. He swallowed and studied the man with fraught expectation. A cold sweat was starting to mist his lower back. "My papers sir?"

"Are in order."

"Yes. Now may I proceed? I have to prepare..."

"Your paperwork is as pristine as one would expect from a candidate for State Certification. Alchemists are ordinarily very methodical people."

Roy could feel is heartbeat hammering everywhere from his toes to his temples. "Thank you, sir."

"But I'm afraid only uniformed personnel are permitted to enter military headquarters today." He gestured to a type-written document on the glass window next to him showing the schedule and requirements of each day that month. The state alchemist examination dates were marked with a resplendent blue, a few shades brighter than Roy's offending, borrowed trousers.

A huge weight started to press itself against the young cadet's chest. Years devoted to this one day, and it was all about to be undone by a bored, bitter gatekeeper.

"Are you joking?" Roy hissed.

The sergeant looked genuinely surprised. "I don't joke." He took a sharp breath, speaking as if he were announcing the next train to East City. "Amestrian Military Regulations dictate that personnel outfit themselves in straight legged trousers without cuffs, and with side and hip pockets. Material should be a mohair blend in Ishbalan blue."

Dry of mouth, Roy bit out a poisonous, "I know."

"Please, cadet. If I didn't stop you here, you would only undergo firmer restrictions when you reached the main facility. I'm sure you've read the code of conduct as well as I have: 'Violations of uniform regulations may result in administrative disciplinary action without regard to otherwise applicable criminal or civil sanctions for violations of related laws. Dress and personal appearance standards that are not listed as authorized in the publication are unauthorized.' Section eighteen, paragraph nine... or eight perhaps. Eight or nine."

Roy Mustang, for the first time in many years, had absolutely nothing to say. It seemed his brain was entirely engaged in working out whether or not the State would recognise his abilities were he to incinerate the infuriating sergeant right where he stood.

The sergeant, assuming the cadet's silence to be misunderstanding, helped him along. "Your trousers are navy, and a little dirty if you don't mind my saying so, cadet."

"What?" The question sounded like a rifle report.

"Navy, cadet. If you'll allow me -"

"I know they're navy, sergeant..." Roy thrust his head through the window to glare at the man's badge, "Falman-"

"Please, cadet. If you'd permit me to -"

"- I'm quite aware that my uniform is mismatched. Everyone on the Rumenro line from the Merchant City to Central Parade knows my uniform is mismatched, but I seem to have neglected the finer details of military attire given that it's my intention to manipulate matter at an atomic level this morning and become a key member – a corner – of our country's faithful servants -"

"Well, yes, but if you would just let me-"

"This is typical. Just typical. I train for years, digging pits for a petty drill sergeant and sleep in packed dorms with a horde of sweating thugs just to be shot down at the finish line by a sentry who," he picked up a pencil that was so well sharpened the end of the lead couldn't be discerned. "Who fetishises _stationery _and harasses prospective state alchemists. You're aware our country's at war, aren't you? You have no idea what this – what... What are you doing?"

The sergeant, in the time it had taken Roy to get thoroughly upset, had removed his own trousers and placed them on the counter. They were neatly folded; creases sharp enough to cut your finger on them.

The man himself stood quite properly on stork-like legs in his little sentry box. He wore nothing on his bottom half but a pair of spotless white briefs and boots that were so well shone, Roy could see his horrified reflection staring back at him.

The aspiring alchemist slid his weight back to rest on his heels, splayed fingers anchoring him to what scant reality he had left. He spoke at last. "You can't be serious."

"I don't jo-"

Roy raised his hand, relief and humiliation thundering through him like a tsunami. "Joke. I know."

"You may wish to alter them somewhat. I can't tell for certain from here, but you do appear to be a few inches shorter than the average soldier of your age group. Though you do have remarkably broad shoulders for someone your height. Most unusual."

Roy shook his head, barely hearing the man and lifted the trousers from the counter. He shook them out and held them against himself experimentally. The waist looked perfect but the legs were certainly too long by at least an inch and a half. He raised his eyes to meet the calm gaze of the sergeant.

"You don't mind?" he asked, suddenly intensely regretful of his extraordinary display of petulance.

Falman considered the question, and shook his head once mutely.

Roy nodded in return and slinging the trousers over one arm, produced a piece of chalk from his pocket. "May I?"

Again, the sergeant considered the question for a beat before shaking his head. As Roy sketched out an array on the cool cement beside him, Falman leaned out of his box. He seemed to gather himself for a long while before he spoke.

"It wouldn't do for a future cornerstone of our country's faithful servants to show up in trousers long enough to trip him."

Roy paused, fingers inches away from the completed array. "I thought you didn't joke?"

His answer was a shy yet triumphant smile.

Blue trousers mended, Roy finished dressing with a flamboyant 'zip!' of his fly. He turned to his superior.

"Does my bum look big in these?" he asked, smiling.

Falman's smile fell and he blinked. "I... have no idea what you mean, cadet."

Roy pursed his lips for fear of doing anything else and offered his hand to the sergeant. "I won't forget this. You really saved my bacon today. I don't know what I would have done without your help... your trousers."

"Please. It's nothing," said the sergeant, though from a man whose leg hair was blowing in the breeze, it was quite the understatement.

"You'll be disciplined if someone catches you like that."

"It's a disciplinary grenade I'm willing to throw myself on, cadet." He scratched his head then levelled his finger at the paperwork poking out from Roy's jacket. "As it happens, I actually do believe that today's cadets are tomorrow's great soldiers. As an alchemist, it would be highly unreasonable for your chances to be jeopardised for want of some trousers."

Roy shook the man's hand again firmly and let go, locking eyes all the while. "Right then. Wish me luck."

Falman smiled. "Good luck, Cadet Mustang."

Roy slipped out of the booth and skipped into a slow jog towards the parade grounds. Hearing his name, he skidded to a stop and turned back, shielding his eyes from the sharp morning sun with one hand.

"Could I ask you a favour, cadet?"

Roy resisted the urge to look at his watch. Now he was ready, he truly wanted to be on his way. Grinning though, he spread his hands in a 'your wish is my command' manner.

"Could you please salute me? As your superior, I mean."

Again, Roy suppressed whatever scowl was trying to bleed its way onto his face. It wasn't that he didn't respect authority; only, once you've seen a man in his underpants, it's difficult not to feel a certain kind of equality.

"It's just... I believe the next time we meet, I'll be saluting you."

"Sir, yes, sir," Roy said through a knowing grin. Then, with more flourish than he'd used thus far in his military career, he completed a full and crisp salute, heels clicking sharply.

"Thank you."

OoO

The hall was freezing. It shouldn't be this cold. A stiff wind blew through the upper windows, mustering enough strength to start the light fittings on a pendulum swing. Roy noted the breeze, just as he noted the misty puffs of air rising from each officer's mouth and the draft that licked about his boots. He noted the pitiful haze of heat that hung about the lights and that corner behind him where the copper pipes ran from the basement to the attic. Since he'd learned the secrets of Flame Alchemy, he alone existed in a secret performance; an atmospheric symphony, ready for him to step up and conduct.

Yet, inside the supposedly fortifying whiteness of his gloves, Roy's fingers felt stiff and mutinous. His superiors were ranged above him in the galleries; a cawing crowd of hungry crows. In front of him sat his three assessors. He recognised one of them as the Crystal Alchemist, Dr Marcoh. A prolific author and something approaching an academic hero, Marcoh's addition to the panel at least gave Roy's nerves the energy and edge they required. He always did best when observed by someone worth impressing. Master Hawkeye's watchful, judging presence saw to that. His daughter's presence saw to it even better. Roy closed his eyes.

_Riza._

"Alright, Mustang. When you're ready."

Nodding, Roy stilled his heart and flicked open the latch to that tender place inside himself. He looked for solace there, and found it in the steady gaze of a sullen country girl. He remembered his breath coaxing the curly hairs at the nape of her neck, and how at times she would push his fringe back from his face, her tranquil eyes staring right into the middle of him. The cloth about his fingers whispered and he snapped. Warmth swept into the hall.

OoO

Hands shaken, salutes issued and praise gracefully received, Roy was just making his way towards the door when it was pushed open for him by a soldier in the most unusual uniform. The penny dropped almost as far as Roy's stomach.

He saluted as well he could with his heart in his mouth. "Fuhrer Bradley, sir! Forgive me, sir!"

The imposing man smiled down at Roy, single eye unmoving. Some strange magic went to work as Roy felt himself shrink into the quaking body of a child. He imagined the hand that offered the salute only remained steady through frightened rictus rather than nerves of steel.

"Most impressive, cadet," Bradley said, words creaking like old war ships banging against a dock wall.

"I'm honoured, sir," Roy barked. The voice was not his own, but one he was well used to by now – the voice of a soldier. Maes often told him he was a consummate performer, that no-one quite did 'pole up his ass' like Roy Mustang. "I didn't realise you were watching, sir."

Bradley smiled and clapped a giant hand down on Roy's undecorated shoulder. "I _was_ watching you, Mustang, and will continue to do so for a very long time."

Roy met the man's eyes and gave a tiny, bug-sized nod. "Sir."

Bradley, head perfectly still, studied Roy with a renewed intensity. In his mind, Roy rushed to close the latches on his secret little box once more and buried the girl deep, deep inside, far away from the impossible gaze of his leader. He almost started when Bradley's other hand took him by the cheek – tenderly – as one would hold a very precious thing.

"You have the most extraordinarily powerful eyes, Mustang. Has anyone ever told you that? A compelling vision, no doubt."

"I'm... not sure, sir."

Nor was he. He _had_ been sure, but almost as soon as Bradley spoke of it, his dreams sputtered and dimmed. He was a child who'd built a wonderful sandcastle, only for the next wave to crumble it into nothing.

Bradley 'hmm'd' and smiled. He patted Roy on the back of the neck and bent to speak to him. Were Roy to lose his mind and take the fancy, he could have licked the man's moustache from where he was.

"We'll see," the Fuhrer said cheerfully, delivering a playful pat to his rump to send Roy on his way. Humiliating and endearing all at once. Bradley was an alchemist in his own rights; a sorcerer of emotions.

Roy paused and saluted again dumbly, then slipped out through the door. On the other side, amongst the other candidates, curious soldiers and passing crowds, stood a smiling fool, arms outstretched.

"Well?" he sang as Roy approached, swinging an arm around the shorter man's shoulders.

"Hughes." Roy shrugged him off and shoved him aside. An unnerving static from Bradley's touch still danced about his face and shoulders.

Hughes cocked his head, and Roy tried to decide which breed of large dog he most resembled.

"Not good?"

A snort. "Perfect." He stopped. He rubbed his still gloved fingers along his jaw, quashing the tremble that ran up his spine, then breathed deeply: one, two, three. Finally, he smiled. "Perfect, of course."

There followed a beat in which Hughes did nothing to conceal his concerned doubt. His raised right eyebrow was uncannily expressive.

Roy grabbed him by the upper arms and shook him lightly. "It was perfect, Hughes. Come on, let's get a drink."

Hughes punched him on the arm with the same vigour one might use to stamp out a fire. "I knew it!" There followed a headlock. "You don't have to tell me twice, _Major_ Mustang!"

They staggered off towards the main gates, Central rising above them in the bright light of late morning. Hughes sang 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' as they strode together, but jolly as he tried to be, Roy Mustang couldn't quite shake the feeling of being somehow bound now. Had Bradley fixed a collar about him as he cupped his jaw, the young alchemist might have thought of a more fitting analogy. As it was, his beloved Fuhrer now knew his name, and that was that.

* * *

_Central City, 1st November 1915_

_The Cassandra Project. Horror horror. To mourn a living thing._

* * *

Ed sat silently, hands resting in his lap and eyes locked on Bormann's as they waited for the porter to finish laying out refreshments. The sandwiches were cut in perfect little triangles, and dainty sausages lay on the outside of the plate like a ring of sunbathers. Small dishes of fruit covered in what could have been mayonnaise or yoghurt nestled beside equally petite plates of ornate biscuits. The biggish man removed the saucers from his trolley, one by one, then each cup in the same fashion. The ticking of the clock together with the clinking of the delph, added a beat that was entirely incongruous with the stillness in the room. The slim secretary offered Ed an assessing smile, sickly hazel eyes gleaming. Ed sighed with meaning. Had he fangs, he would have bared them.

Bormann had escorted him via a series of checkpoints and labyrinthine passageways to his 'personal little playground'. He chatted as they went: about the weather, about the latest ladies fashion and the price of milk. The boy resolutely said nothing as they moved, but rude as he was, Bormann seemed only amused by his silence. At each checkpoint, the secretary was greeted with a fearful kind of respect. No one saluted, for Bormann clearly wasn't military, but they addressed him as though he held their very careers in his hand. Ed surmised that that was very likely the case.

They entered an office that on first glance, looked entirely normal, if a little crasser than Mustang's. Where Mustang was all distressed wood and bespoke fittings, this office could have been lifted straight out of a show room. The desk and woodwork were wrought in pine, and the light from the window was sufficiently blotted out by a thick navy blind. With white walls, neatly arranged filing cabinets and a simple frosted lampshade,the office was actually remarkable in its plainness.

With more time, however, one noticed the cages lining the wall to the right. Varying in size, and numbering about twelve, each cage held a small taxidermied animal. They ranged in size from a canary nearest the window, to a small black and white monkey in a tall cage on the bookcase. Mice, gerbils, rabbits and a flamboyantly coloured lizard completed the collection. Ignoring the multitude of glassy eyes, Ed wrestled with his growing unease.

The porter completed his task with a quiet bow and left the room without a sound. Bormann watched the door over Ed's shoulder, waiting until it closed before his wiry limbs animated themselves and he poured his own tea.

"Forgive me, but I really can't wait," he spoke as he poured steaming, sour smelling green tea into his cup. "Hospitals leave such a horrible aftertaste in my mouth. Such a foul place, don't you think? Full of rot and invalids."

He tapped the shining teaspoon twice against his cup to dry it and settled himself back with a pleased sigh. "Like your Colonel."

Well wasn't that a red flag. "You shut your mouth," Ed spat.

Bormann tittered once, then threw his head back in a series of explosive 'ha's'. They resonated off the china and ivory fittings of his desk.

After a time, he looked back at Ed, wiping a tear from his eye. No mirth. No light. Not at all like Mustang, who also drank tea like a gentleman, but always poured Ed's before his own. Ed pushed his empty cup aside.

Movements tightly controlled, Bormann shot forward. "You shut _your_ mouth, little alchemist." The man's small eyes opened on the word 'your' like a moustachioed villain in a silent movie.

On the corner of the desk, was a mound of files. Bormann reached for the uppermost one and handed it to, Ed. The file was yellowed, dog-eared and bore an out of date Military Police stamp. The date on the spine read 1889. Bormann's thin finger remained, holding the file in place, his long fingernail pinching into the thick, mottled card of the cover.

"Allow me to clarify for you, major, I know you are accustomed to the familiar working style of jolly colonel Mustang. You chose to follow me here today, but had you not, I guarantee you would be sitting exactly where you are whether you liked it or not. While I will take into account your age and various _idiosyncrasies_, I will not entertain any tantrums in my office. I have neither the time nor the patience, and quite frankly, your commander aside, I don't think anyone finds your spit and gall half as charming as you do."

Against the beat of the clock, cool metal hummed as Ed clenched his fist.

"You understand, don't you, that as his highest ranked subordinate, anything you say outside the confines of military conduct will reflect badly on him?" He took a sip of his tea. "And let me tell you, his reputation has about as much credibility these days as a whore in a confessional." He lifted his finger half an inch. "Open the file."

Ed opened the file and abruptly closed it again. What he saw in that millisecond was an abstract imagine of whites, greys and the deepest black. A police photograph. A crime scene.

"What is this?" he whispered, gold eyes dancing as his thoughts raced.

Bormann sighed and topped up his tea. "I shan't be your nanny, Fullmetal Alchemist. Read it for yourself. You _can_ read, can't you?"

Ignoring the question, Ed opened the file once more, steeling himself with a deep breath. The picture had taken a little damage from age and damp, but it was still more than clear enough. A man and a woman lay in a black pool of blood. The man was tall and well built, wearing a dressing gown and patterned pyjamas. By his right hand was a toppled crystal glass, while his left seemed to reach across the black, bloody void towards the woman. His face was entirely missing, all that remained was a dark, confusing mess of matter. The woman, clearly of Eastern extraction, lay with eyes and mouth open. In another photograph at another time, her expression might have been snapped at her own surprise birthday party. The bodies, somehow elegant in how the fell, were like constellations in the night sky. In the background of the picture, beside a swollen book case, was a rustic, homemade rocking horse.

He read the brief report that followed the picture: the details, the _witnesses._

"Mustang was in the house at the time," Bormann lamented. "He discovered the bodies, naturally. Stupid little bugger was found trying to put his daddy's face back together. They had to clean his fingernails out with wire, apparently."

Ed swallowed. "Why are you showing me this?"

Bormann clapped his hands. "Next file!"

Another folder was flung in front of Ed. This one was thicker. More witnesses, more details, a higher death count. Under Mustang's name and ID, the file read: Department of Finance and Munitions, Ishbal – Highly Confidential.

Pushing the file back with his metal hand, Ed met Bormann's eyes unflinchingly. "I don't need to see this. I know what the damn war was, and why the alchemists were there."

Bormann slid the file back toward Ed, smiling. "Ah, ah, ah." He tapped the title. "But this is the _highly_ confidential file. It's much juicier. Aren't you even a little curious?"

"No."

The clock continued ticking as the pair regarded each other in the otherwise silent office. Bormann began tapping his forefinger on the file, intense glee flitting across his face like lightning in a storm cloud.

"Colonel Mustang is almost indisposable to a man like Bradley. He's so versatile! Like one of those little army knives you lot carry around." He started counting on his fingers. "Impeccable grades at the academy, astute tactician, silver tongued, physically fit – oh, _formerly_, physically fit, pardon."

"Shut up."

"Unmatchable alchemist, a face the press kill each other for-"

"Shut up..."

"Fluent in three languages, inspiring commander, unquestionable loyalty contributing to record kills on the front, let's see..."

"Why are you saying this to me?" Ed bowed his head, shaking it slowly. He couldn't let his emotions get the better of him. He had to remember Mustang's words, reel in some sanity in the madness of this quiet, crushing office. Look out for Bormann. Do not engage. Shake off his hooks.

"Unblemished record of subordination, willing weapon at the employ of the state, _willing_ technician in human experimentation."

Ed's breath caught. He could hear the smile in Bormann's voice and feel his eyes bore into the top of his head.

"Open the file, Elric."

"_No_."

The man finished his tea with a dramatic gulp. "No?"

Memory surged through Ed, knocking the breath from him. He felt sick suddenly. Sick and small and wishing Mustang was there, standing behind his chair, firm hand on his shoulder. But he wasn't. He was alone in the infirmary. Alone. Just as Ed was alone, here, with all of this.

"I don't need to see what's in that file. My story with Mustang is my own." He raised his head. He parried. "You're wasting your time if you think you can change my mind about Mustang. We have our own business and that's that."

Two years ago, he couldn't imagine such a loyalty to anyone but Al, but things had changed, tides had shifted and Ed had flung himself into the little boat of Mustang's team, and weathered all storms together with them.

"I trust that man with my life. I would do anything for him."

There was a pause. Bormann reached for the teapot gracefully, but judging from the intensity of his expression, Ed was certain the man was going to fling it across the room. Shockingly though, he simply coughed and poured himself another cup of tea. He looked at Ed, face glorious.

"Good!" he said lightly.

Ed stood. He thrust a finger at the secretary. "You're nuts."

"Sit down, major."

"You have no jurisdiction over me. You're not even in the damn military. I'm leaving. I'm going back to Mustang. Fuck you."

Bormann rapped on the table twice in quick succession pursing his lips. For the first time since they met, he looked genuinely taxed. He spoke at last, casually ignoring Ed's swelling anger.

"Major Elric, I am furnished with special license by order of the Fuhrer. Please, feel free to contact his office directly. Or even better yet, why don't you call that gangly fool Hughes and have him tell you how utterly powerless you are in this situation. You may leave this office in a flurry of pubescent rage, but I assure you, any misdemeanour on your part will only add to your colonel's growing list of issues. Moreover, should you really care for colonel Mustang as much as you propose, then I highly recommend you sit and listen."

The walls about Ed grew smaller still, the room shrinking in on itself and the ivory fittings jutting like teeth. The sense of walking on ice returned to him but this time, he knew with all certainty that the ice was bound to split. All paths led to a chilling, suffocating pool. He returned to his seat shakily and Bormann began his stiff discourse.

"Roy Mustang was born in October 1885. Four years later, his parents were murdered in their home by an unknown group opposing the various doctrines and movements of Roy's father – Oscar Mustang. Young Mustang was put into the care of a relative. Some years later, he underwent instruction in the alchemical arts. He entered Central Academy when he was seventeen years old, forging an impressive start to his military career. In 1905 he sat the State Alchemist exam and was passed unanimously, the first candidate to accomplish such a thing in the history of the state. Didn't know _that_, did you?" Bormann grinned. "You, of course, were the second, you little star."

"I still don't-"

"No expense was spared on Mustang's training: a bespoke programme tailored for only the finest bodies and minds under the Fuhrer's command, and in 1908, he, together with other state alchemists, was shipped to the Eastern front. He proved himself both on the field and in various labs specialising in the economy of war. He escaped injury largely until the closing weeks of the war when he lost an eighteenth of his large intestine to a bomb blast. He returned with honours and has retained the proletariat-granted title of 'The Hero of Ishbal.' While records can't confirm his exact kill count, estimates suggest somewhere around the one hundred and thirty thousand mark. He, together with his support team, discerned the most efficient way to kill using his particular brand of alchemy. In the latter stages of the war, he conserved energy by combusting the air at a 5ft 10in swathe – the average height of an Ishballan man. The technique was a resounding success and closed the fronts at three tactically important locations. Some say Mustang won the war, and even his most vocal adversaries admit that without his unique skills, the whole affair would have been much longer. He received no special treatment for psychological traumas but has been marked as a 'candidate for acute psychological instability' by state experts."

'_Keep a hold of yourself, Ed,_' the young alchemist cautioned himself. This was all part of the man's game. The best way for Ed to win, was to refuse to play in the first place. That's what Mustang would do: always play with his own deck of cards.

"Colonel Mustang hasn't had an easy life," Bormann said, with as much sympathy as one would read a menu.

"I told you. Nothing you can say can change my mind about Mustang." Though had it? A shudder rattled somewhere at the small of Ed's back, unseen by Bormann but feeling enormous to Ed.

"I should hope so, Edward. In this instance, I'm really counting on it!" beamed Bormann.

From a drawer to his right, he produced a cheap gallery post card painting of a beautiful young woman, dressed in Xerxian robes.

"Have you heard of Cassandra, Major Elric?"

Ed narrowed his eyes, heart clenching like a fist. "Of course I have. Anyone schooled over the age of six has heard of her."

"As you know, like Mustang, she too was blessed with a remarkable gift. Snakes belonging to the god, Apollo, having licked her ears clean, freed her from the mortal plug of perceiving only the past and the present. And what good is seeing 'now' when as soon as you've said the word, it too is relegated to the past? Her gift could have saved thousands of lives, certainly her own."

"What's your point?"

"Equivalent exchange, Edward – ha!" His features fell into a theatrical frown. "Of course, the little strumpet refused to return the favour, and so she was cursed."

_They're not dead, Ed._

Something shifted in the room. A cloud passing in front of the sun.

"She spoke the truth..." Ed whispered.

"She saw into the future, Major. Apollo's curse, quite deliciously, was that-"

"-nobody believed her." The pair spoke at once.

Like a fanfare, the clock broke into a series of deafening chimes, signalling the hour. Bormann waited until the room quieted again. He reached for another file and placed it gently in front of Ed. It could have been a cyanide pill for all the danger it held for the boy. It read succinctly: The Cassandra Project.

Ed slammed his fist on the desk. A hairline crack sprung under his hand.

"Are you telling me they're alive?" he yelled.

Bormann's lip turned down at the damage wrought on his desk. He levelled his eyes on Ed. "Don't be foolish, major. Military specialists have scoured the area and found nothing but ashes and dogtags... the occasional charred remains of a skull or two. Maybe even that of one of your comrades? The pretty blonde perhaps. Are you a fan of Hamlet? I bet Mustang is."

"You bastard." Ed prodded the file, a serpent of dreadful emotion beginning to slither its way up his throat. What was this man driving at? Why the biography, the histrionics, the cat and mouse, and the circumvention?

"What is this _for_? What is it for?" Ed squealed, both arms flung across the desk in angry entreaty.

Bormann seemed to catalogue every spot of dirt under Ed's human nails before gracing him with his attention once more.

"Our scientists have been working on _The Cassandra Project_ for quite some time now. Seven years to be precise. Ever since our firsts alchemists started to be sent back from the front more suited to a straight-jacket than to a uniform."

The temperature dropped suddenly as dread started to inch across Ed's skin in a hoary web.

"The Project concentrated on the formation of memories but more importantly, on how memory is recalled. Very fascinating. Open the file, Ed."

Before he'd even registered it himself, Ed had flung the file across the room. It hit the wall with a slap, loose paper zig-zagging wildly to the floor.

"Enough! You're so good at talking, why not just come out with it?"

"That's the spirit, Ed!" Bormann grinned, clasped his hands together and kept them there. "Memories, as I'm sure you know, are a three-headed beast. We call this 'The Hydra'. The first head if you like, registers sight, sound, smell, taste... touch. We call this head, 'The Swallow'. It encodes the detail, converting it into data the brain can use. The second stores that information by sewing it to other experiences. So, say when you were six, you ate a delicious red apple. Now you have a green apple in your hand, your brain will dredge up that memory and say, 'give it a shot! You enjoyed the last one!' Without the second head, we would all be mindless bodies floating in space; life without meaning is a kind of death, you could say." A pensive sigh. "This head is called, 'The Tailor.'"

"Go on."

"The third head is where our real interests lie: 'The Recall.' We found that by cutting off the third head, if you like, candidates in the Cassandra project were unable to recall any distressing memories whatsoever. Thus, all distress, sadness and worry was subtracted from their lives. In that regard, early experiments were a great success."

"Candidates?"

"Mm. The only problem is, without a particular kind of alchemical engineer at our disposal, our candidates really... how can I say? Really couldn't recall much of anything at all... It really is such a delicate process; fit for only the finest minds." With his foot, Bormann tapped Ed under the desk. "Come on, boy genius, surely you see my proposition."

And see it, he did. In Mustang, they had a weapon that was largely still mechanically sound. The issue wasn't the physical, it was the psychological. In his right mind, Mustang could do whatever the hell he liked now he was without his team, his compasses, his roots, his _heart_. He could quit, he could take a sabbatical, he could wander the fields of Aerugo like a ghost. The military were nervous that they were losing him.

Then there was Ishbal. What was Roy Mustang without knowledge of his sins? The thought was terrifying.

Bormann was right. While he still believed that his team lived, the colonel was as useless to them as a pistol without bullets.

Terror swamped him.

"I won't do it," he whispered. Then again. "I won't do it."

"Yet you say you would do anything for him?"

Once more, the pair fell into a broiling silence, Ed's distressed breaths rattling out from his lungs. Where was Al? Where was Hughes? How could he – a child – be expected to detach this serpent from his ankle? The colonel's warning, Ed realised, was less of a starting pistol than the man had planned. Mustang was back in his hospital bed, hoping against hope that his words of caution had been of worth; that Ed had avoided this villain, waiting in the wings. But they were of little worth if any. They couldn't have been – this man had expected them almost. It was rich, Bormann talking about Cassandra the seer of futures. They were all characters in a play he'd been rehearsing for decades, millennia.

Crossing his legs, Ed gathered what wit he had left. Reaching into the past, he pictured the Roy Mustang of that time, sat behind his desk and smiling, even as it seemed the world was crumbling about him. More and more, Ed was asking himself _'What would Mustang do?'_ The answer was invariably always: he would be cool, and he would outplay Bormann, and he would win. A sparrow of hope rose in Ed's chest only to plummet again as Bormann produced an identical file to the last and flicked it open to the section detailing the various arrays used in The Project. Each circle was drawn in blue ink and rendered impotent by a watermarked 'X' through their top right portions.

The first array was terrible, littered with nonsensical, overly decorative detail and pockmarked with childish mistakes. It didn't even approach what was required for what Bormann was suggesting.

"Edward," the man began, and really appeared to be trying his best to sound earnest. It was a filthy show. "Mustang _has_ been selected as the next candidate in this project. In his current condition, we have nothing to lose and everything to gain by using him, or enhancing him I should say."

Too dumbstruck for anything else, Ed simply turned his head slowly from left to right.

"He _will_ be removed from the hospital and he _will_ be placed in my care. He will undergo treatments similar to those laid out before you. This will be done _in camera_, with all the cloaks and screens the state can offer us. These are near certainties. The only variable available to you at the moment is the possibility that Mustang might die from complications in the meantime. As I see it, you have three options available to you."

Ed set his jaw. His hands had started trembling.

"The most obvious course, were I you, would be to euthanise Mustang before he's made available to us. It's probably what Mustang himself would do, were your roles reversed." He tutted once and pouted. "But something tells me you don't quite have what it takes. Lucky me."

"You bastard," he choked.

"The second is for you to comply, using all the genius at your disposal, and ensure that Mustang crosses the river safely from the shores of grief to the flower-filled meadows of new beginnings. We aren't asking you to make him forget what he eats for breakfast. We just need him... functional again, a little more accommodating. Aerugo is growing in confidence everyday, and unless you want to see another Ishbal, we really need someone down there who's able to put silly ideas out of its head."

Ed's fist scrunched the page in front of him. "What if I can't do it?"

"Well, then we'll have tried our best, won't we? Besides, you wouldn't be here unless we believed you could. We're nearly there. Our latest efforts have shown more promise, but... we're just... missing that _flare._"

"What about his family? What about Hughes? He'll never agree... he won't let this happen..."

Bormann laughed from his belly up, the dark notes filling the room like a waltz. He quieted himself again with a few steadying sniffs. "You are very sweet, Major. You really are, and Hughes is a consummate master of appearances. You know he was disciplined on the front three times for wasting his ammunition? I read one report of a little girl with a missing leg who was trying to hobble her way across the desert to Xing. She must have been delusional. In any case, our merry Hughes shot her right...," he drew the word out on a song, twirling his finger until he touched Ed in the centre of his forehead. "Here!"

"I don't -"

"I'm sure the man has enough grace to extend the same mercy to his old academy friend."

He placed his palm to the teapot, and deeming it warm enough, poured himself yet another cup. Steam rose lazily from the cup. Hot enough to burn maybe, but not to scald.

"So... I mean... try it." He shrugged. "Your third option. Walk out of here, forget everything I said and we will continue with Mustang as planned. Check the last page of that section, Major, if you would."

Ed flicked to the final page of arrays and closed his eyes, teeth clenching in frustration. He opened them again to see an amused Bormann.

"It's... this won't work."

A smile. A smile with teeth this time. "Precisely." He unfolded his narrow frame from behind the desk, teacup still in hand and walked to the right side of the room. "Have you had a chance to meet my pets, Elric?"

Ed's eyes drifted to the rows of cages. The monkey's eyes shifted, just a fraction. They weren't dead at all! Horror. Horror.

"Your pets?"

"Mmm," Bormann purred and emptied the remainder of his tea onto the head of the canary. Its little pink beak opened like a wind-up toy, grey tongue flexing. Suddenly, like a train screaming through the countryside, a deafening screech filled the room as the animal registered the pain. It bobbed as it screamed, orange toes shifting, but at no time did it move its wings.

Leaping to his feet, Ed slapped the teacup out of Bormann's hand and threw him against the wall. The teacup bounced off the desk and shattered against the opposite wall.

"You fucking...!"

Bormann, not in the least distressed by Ed's anger, spoke in a rush of perfectly clipped words. "Organisms survive on a diet of pain. They register it and can thus avoid it, but only by _remembering_. The animals you see here are tokens from The Project. You can see how the fundamentals are there, but we are lacking the finesse to make them _function_. You are priceless to this end, Fullmetal. You continue to tell me that you would do anything for your Colonel, but all I see is a naïve little boy brimming with intentions."

Ed flexed his fingers. He was so close. To what, he didn't know: some fearful crescendo. This was too much. It was all too much.

There was a knock on the door. Ed turned towards the sound as Bormann coolly released himself. He stood behind Ed, long fingers curling over the boy's shoulder.

"Ah," he said, squeezing. "My _ultima ratio_. Enter please."

The same porter from before pushed open the door, then leaned back out to retrieve a wheelchair. He reversed it into the room and turned it towards the two men. It took Ed a moment of dreadful freefall to realise what was before him.

A dry sob broke from his lips. The hand on his shoulder tightened.

For anyone less familiar, it might have taken some time, but for Ed, it was a matter of milliseconds. The man in the wheelchair was naked save a blue nappy, and judging from the smell that had entered the room together with them, he'd soiled himself recently. He was greatly reduced from when they'd last met. The formidable set of his bones remained, but loose skin hung between them like fresh laundry. His large hands fell over the arms of the chair, nails clipped impeccably. The porter leant forward with a handkerchief to wipe a long string of spit from the open mouth, but the dull blue eyes registered nothing. They'd shaved him.

Bormann plucked a sandwich from the platter and after considering it for a moment, took a small bite. He spoke while chewing. "Makes for a compelling argument, don't you think?"

Ed stumbled forward, to kneel before the broken giant. A tear rolled down his face as he gulped on air, drowning in the catastrophe. He took the man's hand and pressed his forehead to it. He mourned a living thing.

"Armstrong."

* * *

Thanks for reading chaps xx


	6. The Flowers of the Forest

Here it is folks, the next chapter. Mega thanks to the exemplary Kalirush for her beta work. Also thanks to **disastergirl** who listens to me moan on a daily basis, largely about finishing this (or not!) Thanks pals^^

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_Southern Amestris, 13h October 1915_

_Master being difficult. Creature to carcass. A gesture._

* * *

The world's palette was different here in the South. Where central Amestris was wrought in light greens, gentle sandstones and the cool grey of tarmac, the South was fuller and altogether more sensual. It called to mind a lover who could one moment be fawning and supple, and the next, vicious, spurned and spitting. Breda shuddered as one or two faces returned to him. He sighed loudly through bubbling lips. Opposite him, Havoc, having been hitherto enraptured by a rugby almanac, glanced up at him with drowsy irritation.

"Never mind," Breda mumbled.

Havoc's eyes lingered for a moment then returned to his book. "I wasn't 'til you breathed all over me like a goddamn Clydesdale with a sore dick."

That drew the attention of a few more curious bodies; the passing Private, Hawkeye's subtle ear, and Fuery, who looked torn between intervening with a characteristically inane observation and beating an exit to the forward toilet.

Breda leant in with an outstretched hand as if calming one of the women who so haunted his imagination. "No. Please. Don't let me keep you any longer. Those July stats make for some interesting academic reading three months down the line, Havoc." Then under his breath: "Fuck sake."

With stupendous belligerence, Havoc's response was the erection of one long finger. His eyes never broke from the page.

"Nice, Jean."

"Don't be sore, honey," came the drawled reply from a barely opened mouth.

Having had enough, Breda stood and stretched before grumbling off toward the viewing car at the rear of the train. He felt Hawkeye's eyes on his back as he slid open their carriage door, and he contemplated offering her a backward wave, but irksome in mood, decided not to.

The other soldiers further down the train were in better spirits than his little team, who were, if he was honest, suffering somewhat under the cloud of Mustang's recent mood. The Colonel was bad enough in Central, but ever since the breakdown on the _Volga_ and his conversation with Vought, he maintained a cool professionalism with them. Fuery, too young to know better, had thought it was because they'd locked him out of their carriage, but Mustang had been light-spirited the following morning. The very fact that he _did_ give them a flamboyant telling off was enough to ease any concerns that he might feel wounded. No, this damp spirit of his was something else entirely. Mustang was never quiet when he was happy, and Breda was well accustomed to the man's shrewd dances to shield his true humour. There, a hand over his mouth when he spoke of non-official matters and there, the slight rise and fall of his left knee as he sat thinking.

He'd given Falman a hard time too about his failing to report two of Vought's men he'd seen getting fresh with a stewardess. When the girl – who hailed from Vought's hometown and was underage – reported the matter, the soldiers excused themselves saying a Warrant Officer had passed them and pardoned them, so they thought it was standard for this type of thing. In Falman's defence, he'd broken the whole affair up, promising the youngsters that he wouldn't mention it to their superiors so long as they apologised to the girl.

Vought pulled Mustang over the coals for knowing about the comings and goings of other units when he didn't even know about his own, and naturally, Mustang was livid. He chastised the Warrant Officer openly and with a hot energy that made Fuery cower in his seat. This was a commander who played cards with his men and threw them extra holidays whenever he could. It was weird, his mood, and it had them all wound up. There was something stirring in Mustang that was entirely new to the team, and they, like birds before a storm, were becoming restless and seeking shelter of their own.

It took Breda a full five minutes to walk the length of _The Salamanca_ to the viewing platform at the back. He struggled with the heavy brass handle for a moment before finding it pulled free from the other side. The door swung outwards and there was Mustang, all billowing coattails and flying hair.

"Sir," he said and saluted, knowing formality was safest for now with the way Mustang was. "If you're busy,..."

Flinching, Mustang returned the salute then sighed. "You too, huh? I thought Fuery was going to feed me my grapes for breakfast this morning."

Breda said nothing, but offered a rueful smile for politeness' sake. Mustang shook his head and closed the door, then pushed Breda towards the rattling guard rail with a gloved hand. They both leant on it like real men did, knuckles sharp, fingers curled and shoulders hunched. Breda imagined they could have been on one of those fancy smoke ads, the ones that sexed up soldiers as tobacco-smoking, gun-toting, reckless romantics. At least Mustang fit the bill, or would have, but for his dark looks. All those magazines ever seemed to want were Havocs and Hawkeyes.

"Cigarette?" Mustang asked, surely employing the psychic powers the team all suspected him of owning.

Breda shook his head and produced some clove rocks, pocket-warm and bearded with confectioner's paper. Mustang refused the sweets with a cute frown of disgust.

"Sorry, sir, and I don't think I'm in a position to bum a smoke unless I want my teeth knocked in."

Bent far over the rail now, elbows supporting and white fingers dangling, Mustang looked up at him incredulously. "The Lieutenant's sore about something?"

Breda shrugged and popped one of the boiled sweets into his mouth then pocketed them again. He took a moment, letting the risk of speaking candidly settle in his stomach. "You know what he's like, the big mutt. He gets testy when his master's being difficult."

Until that moment, it didn't occur to Breda just how loud the train was. And now that it was curling into the dark, balmy hinterlands of Southern forest, the noise seemed to swell around them. Mustang didn't stir, but just continued watching the tracks race back behind them. He was wounded by that line.

After minutes and minutes of foliage and piston-fuelled music, Mustang reached a decision and straightened where he stood. Already he seemed more like his old self. He nodded once, then again.

"Okay," he smiled then, even a little shyly; perhaps embarrassed that once again, Breda had found him brooding and secretive. "I'll speak to the men to-"

He was cut short by the mighty screeching of breaks. Both men were thrown backwards, where Breda's back connected painfully with the solid door handle. Mustang, altogether slighter than his Lieutenant, was flung into the soft wood of the rear carriage wall, then forward again, skipping awkwardly on his right boot. Breda saw disaster explode like a sun flare. The Colonel clipped the rail and spilled over with a small, surprised cry. Breda lurched forward and _just,_ by some miracle of his own momentum perhaps, caught Mustang by holster and hair. The train ground on, its breaks squealing for another second. Then it appeared to strike something at the front and shuddered to a more sudden stop. Both men fell back in a heap, Mustang's bony backside making nasty with Breda's soft parts. The Lieutenant was not complaining though. Forgetting himself, he held tight to the huffing body in his arms as if it was the last dinghy on a sinking ship.

Mustang shakily extracted himself and stood. He looked at Breda for a long, long time and for the life of him, the Lieutenant couldn't work out what fierce emotion coloured his eyes. It was unnerving. If this was the last thing Mustang's enemies saw, then he wagered there were a lot of shat pants in the company of the Flame Alchemist.

Finally, the Colonel spoke through an intake of breath. "Don't ever do that again."

Like a flock of alighting crows, he vanished through the door.

Breda had to use the wall to stand and only then did he see it. _The Salamanca_, afterall, was an old heap of junk. The iron guard rail had abandoned the train entirely, snapped free by the impact. Breda could see it still bouncing along the track like a toddler scrambling for its neglectful minder. The inertia of the collision had forced both men back onto the platform and were it not for that, Breda surmised that he and Mustang would be in worse shape than that flimsy piece of ruined iron. It's a tough thing, hitting railway girders at sixty miles an hour.

"Fuck," he breathed, then stood and followed Mustang, feeling lousy, beat and euphoric all at once – The Mustang Effect.

He found Mustang together with Vought and the others at the head of the train. Already, the tracks stank with the iron tang of blood, but nothing, _nothing_ could come close to the sickening sound that shook every molecule for miles.

It turned out the train struck a large horse that had found itself stuck on the tracks. _The Salamanca,_ being older and less sophisticated in design, dragged the animal for forty yards until it managed to stop. It was a sad sight. Probably one of the saddest Breda had ever seen. The noise that such a fine animal could make was like death and hell and everything in between. It was _screaming_, great wails of pain and distress issuing forth from a huge mouth. When it's breath caught, it grunted with eyes rolling before sucking in enormous lungfuls of air to resume its awful chorus.

The initial blow had popped it open down the middle, and a vicious trail of living flesh flew back along the track like a party streamer. The horse's dark brown, almost black fur glistened in the forest light and the white's of its eyes recalled for many of the more seasoned men, other horrors on other faces. Heavy, glistening hooves crazed against the girders and underside of the carriage, opening the wound further and further like an unfurling smile. A few people wretched and emptied their lunch, including Havoc who'd lit a cigarette for just about everyone who would take one to mask the smell of blood. Vought stepped forward and got on his honkers, hovering his large hand above the white star on the thrashing beast's head.

"Okay, men. Let's get this - "

Pink matter exploded in two distinct eruptions as a pistol was discharged twice. The bangs were so sudden, Havoc and Hawkeye had their own guns drawn and stood back to back before anyone had even registered the act.

Mustang looked down at the animal, his hard gaze following the line of his still arm, white glove, calm fingers and still, still pistol. Smoke rose lazily from its muzzle. The animal bucked once and stilled. Dark, frothy matter sloughed from its open mouth, dyeing its large teeth pink. Vought removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his blood-flecked face. He stood slowly.

"Doing the necessary with typical expedience, Colonel. Well done."

Hypnotised by the grim scene beneath him, Mustang didn't answer nor break his gaze until the first brave flies hovered and landed on the carcass, whereupon he turned his nose up in his own priggish way. Creature to carcass; just like that.

Vought was shrewd and, Breda supposed, kind in his own way, for it was clear he noted the trembling of the Colonel's other hand – the one that didn't shoot. In one succinct order, he instructed his men to dig out the horse and have the train moving again in twenty minutes flat.

Aware but uncaring of Mustang's crowding team, Vought took him by the elbow and looked deep into his eyes. He spoke gently, as a friend, or father.

"Should I be worried? Should I be worried here, Mustang?"

He hadn't given an order, when all was said and done, and for a Colonel to do away with an animal was more than a little unorthodox.

"You have cause to worry when I am unable to provide a humane solution without an order, Sir."

Vought looked taken aback, but following a moment's contemplative pause, accepted the answer.

Mustang bowed and excused himself, citing a migraine. It was his second in as many days.

Breda waited until everyone but Havoc had mounted the steps. The two looked at each other knowing full well that their crankiness was a silly, sibling affair, symptomatic of a taxed father and quietly worrying mother. Havoc made amends by offering a smoke, and Breda by refusing it with a humongous disgusted face. It was their way, and Breda reckoned their chances of escaping the silly cycle of affection and spatting were more or less nil.

"Wanna hear how Mustang's ass nearly snapped my dick off?" he asked, climbing up the steps behind a grinning Havoc.

"Ha! You wish!" the Lieutenant called as he held open the outer door, smiling past the horror of the dead horse on the track.

Just hours after the incident in the forest, the train rolled into Tolven North station where a fleet of army jeeps awaited the dispatch of men. Mustang who was impossibly more red-eyed and pale than before he lay down, jumped into the first jeep with the quartermaster and Hawkeye. Havoc snickered as Mustang fussed over his Lieutenant, only to be shooed away like a bothersome kid. She definitely had a way of managing him. As the jeep sped off with them, he could be heard barking orders that he wanted an abundance of supplies owing to the approaching weather system. He attached his Second Lieutenants to Vought who greatly needed them to organise the rest of the troops into their transport.

The fledgling soldiers were excitable and prone to predictable jokes about where to take a shit and making sure the giant southern mosquitoes didn't bite your equipment off. Fuery who was sensible but green, was susceptible to the banter and chose Falman of all people to answer his jittery enquiry, presumably fearing judgement by his two, more blokish, comrades. Unfortunately, he didn't count on Falman's own ignorance nor on Falman's famous disregard for shame, and so when the Warrant Officer passed on the enquiry to the entire outfit of men tasked on digging the latrine, Fuery made himself scarce.

Under the imposing shadow of the rocky outcrop, known locally as The Sugar Loaf, the men settled into their temporary quarters. Some men likened the sparse hill to one of Betty 'Ginger' Berger's breasts, an observation that had Falman utterly confused. He didn't go to the pictures and never bought a dirty magazine in his life.

Mustang disappeared into Vought's private tent almost immediately for a meeting. Hours later, he slipped out with a whiskey-warmed salute and picked his way back towards his people, respectful of but somewhat cold to the excited soldiers who fell over each other to greet him and offer him any assistance he might need. One young Corporal offered him the very chocolate his sweetheart had procured for him, but the Colonel declined with advice that should the Coporal wish to enjoy his chocolate, he'd better keep his mouth shut lest it be carried off by six-foot, blue clad ants. The youngster beamed at what seemed to him a loving jibe, but failed to see the grimace that passed across Mustang's face like a trailing widow's veil.

The Colonel undressed quietly, stripping off everything but his underpants in the cloying night time heat. His team were still up, most playing cards by gaslight while Hawkeye read and Fuery practiced the loading, priming and disabling of his pistol. Nobody seemed fazed by the scarred nakedness of their commander. As Mustang leant out of the flap door to wash his face with canteen water, Havoc asked him if he wanted a bedtime cigarette as casually as he would an old pal. The Colonel acquiesced, finally slipping on some fatigues for the sake of decency and settling beside his men in his straight-backed, cross-legged way. He placed his right hand in the centre of the circle to still the game, cigarette burning in his left.

Falman retracted his play like a Xingese maiden, his wrist curling back daintily.

"I want to apologise to all of you," the Colonel began. By now, Hawkeye had put down her book and was watching her superior with the same intensity Mustang had watched the dying horse. "I realise my... demeanour has been..." He took a drag and coughed, looking at the sloping ceiling of the tent until it passed. "Has been, uh, confusing?"

A volley of nods issued from his men. Confusing. That was about right.

"Truth is..." He sighed, picking up a card and turning it. The Ace of Clubs. "High or low?"

"High," Havoc answered.

Mustang nodded and set it on the used deck. Falman mourned it with a bite of his lip.

"Look, truth is, I think this whole thing has been rotten from the start and try... try... as I might, I just can't... work it out. And I'm tired. I can't stop _trying _to puzzle this thing out." He made his point by tapping his temple with the fingers that held the cigarette. "I wanted answers by now. My only avenue was Vought, but our meeting on the Volga quickly disabused me of that notion."

Hawkeye shifted onto her knees, feet tucked under her and hands resting neatly on her thighs. "Vought suspected _you?_"

Mustang nodded, as did Breda who would have bet that the General was innocent of clandestine machinations from the start. He was much too parochial for the python tricks of the Central Brass.

"Vought is suspicious of... Central? Bradley?" Breda asked, hushed.

Mustang cocked his head and pouted, thinking.

Fuery pulled himself into the circle and successfully closed the last space between them. They now huddled around the lamp like kids telling ghost stories.

"Or you don't know what to be suspicious of exactly? Where the buck really stops with this mission? That's what's bothering you." The kid had smarts, there was no denying it.

A spoonful of fiery lizards wouldn't have choked Mustang up as much as his next words did. "I don't... I don't know." He threw a hand up and pushed back his fringe. His boyish fall of hair had the magical quality of stripping years from him, and with it off his face he always looked like an entirely different, more sober person. Breda had a long-running joke that the Colonel wore it back when he had an appointment with his bank manager. The theory was yet to be contested.

"I can't work out if Bradley himself wants us here, or if he's just giving administration free reign and waiting to see what happens. It's not an unprecedented practice and he has bodies to spare if things go wrong. Bormann is troublesome... I can see his influence in every square inch of this mission. We're in the dark about Aerugon Tolven's resources though, and so I can't imagine what reason there is for stirring up trouble down here. Usually when Bormann's around, his accountants aren't far behind, but this time..."

The Colonel halted abruptly with a hiss and pressed the heel of his hand to his left eye, rocking forward and dropping his cigarette. Havoc caught him with his left hand and grabbed his own canteen with his right, offering it to Mustang who hid behind his hand as he drank. He recovered for a split second then doubled over again with a little moan. He was wrecked, the team new it, and the team fretted for him.

Hawkeye got to her feet and folded back Mustang's sleeping bag. She stood over the tired-looking thing so firmly that it looked all the flatter for trying to escape her authority.

"Sir, you're overtired and in need of rest. Conjecture can wait until tomorrow."

Havoc nodded and together with Breda, helped the slighter man to his feet. "The Lieutenant's right, Sir. We're here now and short of abandoning our posts, there's nothing we can do to... what's that thing about bolting the stable? Or stable doors?"

"If anyone mentions a H.O.R.S.E, I'm going to slug them," Breda said and pushed Havoc aside to guide Mustang to his makeshift bed. "You've got world class timing, Jeano Ginelli."

Havoc grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck, appreciating the consoling quality of the fresh buzz. His face fell swiftly. "Ah shit, that damn pony..."

Mustang slapped the back of Breda's head affectionately and slid down into his sleeping bag, with the others following suit. Hawkeye passed him a cool canteen which he pressed to his closed eyes, grimacing. The lamp was extinguished and the small unit settled into their intimate little circle of cots, canteens, books and cigarette cartons. Outside, one of Vought's Lieutenants was tearing stripes out of a straying Sergeant who'd gone to say 'good night' to an old cadet friend. The soft hum of conversation drifted in from the other quarters.

"You don't think it was an omen do you?" Fuery asked suddenly, in that manner of whispering that's closer to talking.

Havoc and Breda groaned and threw their dirty socks at the Sergeant.

"Look, it was a dumb animal who was too dumb to get out of the way of 240 tonnes of steel. End of story. Don't get superstitious, kid - unless it's about money or women," counselled Breda.

Hawkeye sighed meaningfully and won an apology.

"It wasn't an omen, Fuery," Mustang said simply, with a huge 'but' hanging in the air. He took a belly-deep breath before speaking again. "It was a gesture."

"A gesture?" asked Havoc.

"The horse's hind legs were broken at the ankle and the skin torn there in two distinct strips. It was hit from behind, which means it turned its face away from the train to escape, or run, but couldn't."

"Oh my god," Hawkeye muttered, the ghostly trail of her pale hand flying to her mouth visible in the blue darkness of the tent.

"You're saying it was _tied_?" Breda, incredulous, fought to keep his voice low.

"It was tied, and what's more, it was an Aerugon horse, branded but not tamed. An _animalia mixta."_

Falman, up on his elbows, fought to find Mustang's eyes in the gloom. "A mixed beast."

"I've heard that before," Breda said. "Where have I heard that before?"

"It's made to measure fodder for my detractors at the papers... a lot of words rhyme with 'Xing,'" Mustang smirked, sour and scared by what he was revealing, or rather, what the team were unravelling for themselves.

"_Mestengo_," Falman supplied. Sinking back to the ground under the weight of this revolution.

"_Mestengo..._ _Mesteng – _Mustang, right?" Havoc asked, dry voice cracking. "Right? In Aerugonian? My dad must have shot forty of those asshole ponies when I was a kid for fucking every one of our good show horses we let out to graze."

"Like I say," Mustang said, curling on his side, black mop of hair spilling from the dark green covers. "A gesture. Keep it in mind when you're standing next to me in the open."

He added firmly, "That's an order."

"You need to be specific how you want us to 'keep it in mind' then, Sir, 'cos there's only one way I'm interpreting that order." Havoc's blond head bobbed in the dark with his conviction.

Hawkeye's voice trembled when she spoke. "Everyone turn over and close any hole in your head you can. We need sleep if we're to perform effectively."

The team abided, though their hearts beat unsteadily in their chests. For the entire trip, there had been something in them that needed bled out. Now that it had been, things were just as bad – worse even. Each man stung for the pain in Hawkeye's voice, but none of them saw the small hand that snaked out of her sleeping back to take Mustang's hand, nor the fierceness of her gaze as she watched him drift off to sleep.

* * *

_Central City, 1st November 1915_

_They are dead. Cepheus' dames. The Flowers of the Forest._

* * *

Ed told Hughes everything. By the time the boy found him, he was half mad with upset. With Gracia and Elysia in the sitting room, Ed and Hughes sat at the kitchen table facing each other. They were lost and scared and try as they might, neither could muster their famed bravado. It had fled in this mess. Were it anyone else they had to help, a damsel, a fool or any 'case' at all, they would have plotted and gamed with ease. But this was Mustang, who – at the bottom of things – was to be rendered an imbecile by the state unless Ed should step in and assist them in their heinous project. As he spoke of Armstrong, Ed broke into a terrible storm of tears, hyperventilating and in need of a full half cup of scotch until he was calm enough to speak again. When they'd tired themselves out with grief and plotting, Hughes carried a slumbering Ed to rest in Elysia's bed, while his little girl slept together with her parents.

With his child sleeping soundly against his side, Hughes lay awake and made such conclusions and decisions that no man ever should. His first conclusion was that, as it was, they were stuck. There were four main bodies at play: Mustang, Bormann, Ed and the dead soldiers on which the whole conceit depended. Were the dead soldiers to appear tomorrow in a puff of smoke, the whole thing would fall apart. The media would light on the miracle and Mustang would be too exposed to be touched by the dark fingers of Central's labs. So reasonably, there were only two ways Mustang could be spared Armstrong's fate: one, that a miracle occurred and the troops returned _gloriosus et liber_, and two, that Mustang take his own life, or have someone do it for him. Or, of course, perish in his sleep from stroke, aneurysm, heart attack or any one of the nightmares that had haunted Hughes' dreams since the whole disaster began.

The second theory was the one that saw Hughes curled around his toilet bowl, sick with anxiety from the early hours until the dawn chorus. Mustang wouldn't dream of suicide while he still believed his men lived, but faced with the alternative – his men dead in his _own_ mind, along with his memories of Ishbal absent – he would almost certainly take measures to render himself inert. The more Hughes thought on it, the scarcer his doubt became: if Mustang knew about Bormann's intentions, he would certainly kill himself. On this, Hughes was definite.

So, palish and red-eyed the following morning, Hughes relayed his fears to Ed. He instructed the boy of his wishes, and was clear that to breach his orders was to sentence Mustang to death by his own hand. Ed looked stunned, but accepted the advice with burgeoning maturity, asking Hughes to pass a star map to the Colonel to keep him occupied.

As he watched Ed leave that morning, Hughes knew the wrong he was doing, and swallowed the bitter sourness of his own selfishness. He would never know if Hawkeye would follow through on their promise to Mustang – to keep him straight. But the simple matter was, Hughes could not let Mustang go. He couldn't bare it: a world without his noble, troubled friend. He would hang on, no matter what. That was just the man he was. _The Cassandra Project _hadn't won yet, and Hughes would struggle, manipulate and harass anybody he could to steer things in their favour, but a living Mustang without his men, was better than any grim alternative.

Gracia made him eggs that Tuesday morning, and he promptly threw them up again when he saw his dress uniform pressed and regal in his closet.

Now, a day later, smothered in the rich blue wool, black armband taut on his arm, he made a slow march to Mustang's room, terrified that Mustang would see the terrible secret he fostered in his heart.

He knocked and entered to find Mustang propped up in bed seemingly half-way through making a cat's cradle with the wires of his hospital equipment. He held the creation aloft, smiling cheekily, then let the wires fall to his lap. Hughes smiled back and closed the door, eyes nervously searching for the dog tag he'd deposited here two days before. He found it hanging over the rightmost post of the metal bed frame, but from the way it swung, he guessed it had been removed and deposited there in a hurry.

"I thought you were staff," Mustang explained, and his light mood vanished as suddenly as the cat's cradle had.

Hughes made a regretful face and approached the bed to sit. "You should be careful. It's risky, wearing it around your neck."

Mustang gave a tight snort and talked past biting the quick of his thumb. "Not becoming of an officer?"

"Don't."

"And why not? What if I said she was just another soldier, and these the only tags I have? An artefact from my great Southern blunder."

Hughes closed his eyes and thought of a teething Elysia, Sunday morning traffic out of the city and dog shit in the park, anything to remind himself he was a patient man.

Mustang nudged him, and Hughes looked down into his friend's black, scalpel-bright eyes. He could feel each incision they were making keenly, as ideas blossomed and matured in that clever mind of his.

"You look tired, Hughes," he said at last, scrutiny bleeding out of the statement like sap out of a fresh cut in a young tree.

"I've been dreading today," Hughes reasoned. "I was hoping it would rain and keep the crowds away. I don't like the thought of the papers being there."

"It's a sham anyway," Mustang said.

"Roy -"

"You've said 'hello'. I don't see any need for you to linger here."

A single wood pigeon blustered onto the sill outside and cocked a beady eye into the room to study the strange pair; Mustang in his duck-egg hospital robes and Hughes in the rich blue of his dress uniform. Both men regarded the bird silently, Hughes' fingers tapping lightly on Mustang's cast arm. When the pigeon's partner arrived with an awkward crash landing, a deeper sombreness bled into the room. In a matter of minutes, Hughes was off to bury the empty caskets of Mustang's men. It was absurd in its own way. Unsure if it was irony or tragedy, Hughes was lost for approach, let alone words. He couldn't offer condolences for deaths his friend vehemently refused to acknowledge.

"I _want_ to see you Roy, whether you like it or not."

"Where were you yesterday?"

The question caught him off guard, and he stuttered. He honestly, until that moment, hadn't even thought on his failing to visit Mustang the previous day. In the whirlwind of a sobbing Edward, state threats and secrets, he'd forgotten entirely. It was a silly error to have made.

Mustang smirked. "Had to get your uniform pressed for your big show?"

"I didn't come here to argue. I wanted to see you. I was busy, and by the time things wrapped up, it was too late. I always want to see you, Roy. Come on."

"I don't _want_ to see you, Hughes, unless it's on the front of _The Times_ campaigning for a manhunt for my men."

Hughes swallowed a sigh. "That won't happen."

"Oh, I know. I know," Mustang spat, fury kindling in his eyes. He flung his good arm at Hughes. "That you would even come here in your fucking dress blues, Hughes!"

"I'm expected to be there, R-"

"Stop fucking _pretending_ that it isn't sentimentality, Hughes! You believe they're dead, so just say you want to dump them in the peat with the Last Post and a volley of shots!"

Hughes slipped off the bed, and knelt next to Mustang now, looking up into the face of rage. On all days, he wanted today to be calmer, to be one of Mustang's _good_ days. But he was foolish in his hopes.

"I have a right – I just... wanted to _talk_ with you -"

"I don't want you to come and _chat_ to me, I want you to _work_ for me, as you always have done! You're of no use if the men you're supposed to be petitioning for a rescue mission are holding your fucking coat at the service!"

Now, in the true heat of things, on that day of all days, Mustang was screaming. Tendons stood out on his neck like cables and spit flew from his mouth. Though his voice was weak and cracked, it was powered from a source from deep within – a dark energy made of hopeless venom. In that moment, Hughes knew he was despised. And temporary as it was, it was devastating.

Panicking and fraught, he stood, thrusting a finger at the alchemist. "Stop it, you! Stop it!"

Mustang halted his tirade, panting, _glaring_ at Hughes with murderous eyes.

Hughes pushed on, towering above Mustang, bearing down on him with days of hurt and withered integrity. "Stop pretending they meant nothing to me too! Goddamn it, Roy! I played rugby with Havoc before you'd even laid your eyes on him. I loved them too, Roy! I loved them too. Stop - stop talking to me as if I don't give a shit!"

Hughes' words bounced off every fitting in the room, frightening the birds from their perch and resonating with the metal hooks of the bed curtain. He held Mustang's gaze, sure that if he broke it, he would collapse where he stood. Never, ever in his life had he screamed at another person in such a way. After painful, stinging seconds, Mustang spoke. His bright eyes were weighted with meaning, with conflict.

"She's pregnant."

The feeling that raced through Hughes' body was apocalyptic in scale, vicious in nature, and brought him stumbling to sit on the edge of the bed once more.

"What?" he whispered.

Speaking without feeling, Mustang toyed gingerly with his truncated ring finger, seemingly unknowing, and certainly without irony. "She was at thirteen weeks when we received the dispatch notice. We were going to... deal with things after the mission." His eyes flicked to Hughes, then away again, barely perceptible. "Either way."

Hughes licked his lips, feelings at war, tearing his insides to pieces. Mustang shared everything thing with him. Everything. Because Mustang's business _was_ their business, Hawkeye's and his. If Mustang skipped breakfast they wanted to know about it. When you invest your life in someone's dream, that's the pay-off; shared lives, open doors between only you. How could he keep such a thing to himself?

"How could you keep this from me?"

Mustang shook his head. Guilt was there in the fall of his shoulders and the biting of his lip.

"Does anyone else know?" Hughes asked.

"My mother and Knox. He confirmed it... the result."

He couldn't help himself, because he _did_ feel wronged to have been kept in the dark as he was. He could have taken measures, maybe even saved them both from the jaws of that terrible mission. Didn't Mustang _know_ that he survived on a diet of information?

"You should have told me."

Mustang nodded slowly, all fight gone. "I know."

Hughes loved Hawkeye. He loved everything about her, though he understood not even a third of how she thought and moved. For him to be robbed of _this_ information. Mustang's confession was a spark in a dry forest. The fire caught.

"You should have told me, Roy," he whispered.

Annoyance lit on Mustang's face, but exhaustion dampened its growth into anything more serious than a creasing of his forehead. "I know, Hughes," he bit out.

"No. You don't get it. She didn't have to be there. Neither of you did. If I had known... Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

As in the heavens, when hot and cold forces met, storms grew at the seams. A dark tempest was swelling in the room.

"I – I didn't want you to get the wrong idea."

"The wrong idea? You sleep at our house! We put you both up. We're not children, Roy! We know the score, for crying out loud. _You _implicated _us!_ Gracia and I; we gave you free reign, threw parties so you could both come round and play out your clandestine aff-"

"An affair?" Mustang asked, genuinely shocked. "An affair, Hughes?"

That was a mistake. He didn't mean that. "I didn't mean that."

"She is everything."

There it was. His chance. Hughes seized it, escaping his own error and falling on Mustang's. "Yes. I know it. I know it, Roy. And now you have trouble letting go – can't you see?"

"This is exactly why I couldn't tell you. You'd never believe me when I said they weren't dead."

Hughes' fist bounced off the wall, rattling wires and hooks. "They _are_ dead, Roy! Goddamn it!" His eyes had grown wet, but he welcomed the tears. They were natural in this dead, crazy world Mustang had built inside his little room. "They are dead! You stupid, selfish bastard! You _know! _You were there – you _know_! You _know_ they're dead. They're dead. They're dead, Roy! There's a thousand men down in the necropolis ready to bury them. They're dead. They are dead!"

"Hughes!" The word was incredulous, and sounded less like a name than a curse.

He had to escape. He had to get away from this madness. Hughes lurched to his feet, pulling the small star map from his pocket and flinging on the bed. "That's from Ed. Fine reading for a man with his head in the clouds."

Hughes stormed towards the door, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. Together with grief, shame was already rushing into him like a shock tide. The type that caught already floundering swimmers unaware. He sobbed and yanked the door back.

"Hey!" Mustang, tore his covers off and struggled forward on his one good arm.

The alchemist tumbled from the bed, pulling the sheets and star map down around him. "Turn and face your superior, Hughes, goddamn you."

Hughes pushed the door closed and walked back to Mustang on shaking legs. He crouched and thrust a long finger into his friend's face, punctuating each word with a jab at the air. "Don't you fucking dare."

He turned on his heel and left, though by what strength, he didn't know. He seemed to be carried on a raft of wrath and shame, and with each stroke, the latter only grew. He knew in his heart that Mustang had only listened to the animal in himself. His baby was growing in Hawkeye's belly, and who could blame a man for letting such a miracle render him beastly secretive and near paranoid? Hawkeye was pregnant. She was _pregnant_. The world was rotting on its axis. How could they be so foolish?

Against his earlier intentions, Hughes stood at the back of the assembly as over sixty empty coffins were committed to the dirt. He, like Mustang, and them all, was motivated by fear now: fear of seeing Hawkeye's casket, fear of Mustang seeing his grief on the front page of the morning edition, fear of Bradley, fear of his tears, fear that the pipe band's lament would rend his heart in two, fear for the friend he'd left lying on the cold floor of his lonely hospital room.

On his way home that night, he bought an abundance of gifts for his girls: ribbons, stuffed toys and macaroons. When asked why, he shook his head and kissed them both, because he was a keeper of secrets too.

Mustang sat, stupefied, on the floor. He'd started shaking. Seeing Hughes turned maniac threw him. He never realised how close the man was to breaking, and he sorely regretted revealing the pregnancy. He should have known better – did know better. But he wanted to hurt Hughes. He wanted to punish him for his inaction, for his solid belief in what the state said. And so he wounded Hughes with his own sword; distrust. All he had to do was _look _for them_. _And for his part, if he could just _remember_. He'd betrayed Hawkeye once with the evil in his hands, and now he was doing it all over again: a victim of his own weak mind.

Fearing desolation and at a loss for anything else to do, he reached for the star map. He flicked it open and saw Ed's spidery mess of handwriting.

'_Cepheus' dames; nice girls with a lot to say. Work through them both til you see what I mean, you lousy dunce – and don't forget! By the way, those stars you recommended weren't hard to miss. I wasn't so impressed, though, maybe I should have looked for them earlier. So, anyway, I guess they'll keep me busy now, if you think they're so important. Nobody else'd believe you, except a sap like me!'_

Mustang blinked at the note. No one could say Ed was a kid without verbal stylings. He was a regular poet, and his colourful turns-of-phrase were as fitting for the dockyards as for the military.

First thing first. It was clear Bormann had found Ed, and they'd met. It was clear too, that while Ed hadn't succeeded in avoiding the man, he had worked out his unsavoury character. Though it was unlikely, Mustang's real fear was that Bormann would work on Ed's emotions, slinking his way into the boy's trust. Mustang shook his head. _That_ was impossible from the start.

So they'd met. Then what? They'd had a chat in which Bormann pushed Ed for information? Tried to get the dirt on Mustang? No. The boy said he _will_ be busy – future tense. So Bormann asked Ed to do something. What?

"What?" Mustang asked the room and the solitary pigeon who'd cautioned a return to his sill.

"Why will you be busy?" he asked the absent Ed.

Cepheus' dames. His daughter and wife? His whores?

Good to start with the daughter then. Mustang flipped through the pages to the constellation, Andromeda. An array maybe, hidden in the stars? Did Bormann want an array? Supposing he did want an array, what motivation could he have?

A familiar pain started to grow behind Mustang's eyes. He blinked an errant tear from the corner of his left eye and tore the constellation from the book. He turned to Cassiopeia, the wife. He tore it free too and placed the pictures side by side, his eyes darting across the field of white lines and yellow dots.

"Work through," Mustang muttered. Ed didn't say 'look' at.' What did that mean?

Systematic.

Mustang studied the stars in both constellations. He named them each in his head: Sirrah or 'a And'... 'p Cas'... The dull throb in his temple was growing by the second. His left lashes fluttered of their own accord, provoked by a stress induced tic he'd won in the South.

"Work through... work through..." he muttered, taking the middle finger of his right and left hand and running them across the constellation titles respectively. A/C... An/Ca... And/Cas... Andr/Cass... Andro/Cassi...

He fingers paused.

"Cassandro," he said quietly, the word resonating as truth. It _felt_ right, and a great alchemist didn't work by mathematics alone. Cassandro, being the male Cassandra, his theory slotted neatly onto a brightly lit shelf in his mind. 'Nobody else'd believe you' the note said. That was it then.

"Cassandra... dunce?" Mustang strained his neck to read the note again. "Cassandra... why am I a dunce, Ed?" He dropped his finger to the exact spot. "Don't forget."

He smiled. His head was killing him, but it all felt right – just like divining air currents.

Mustang was confident of the following: One, Ed was in the employ of Bormann. Two, he wasn't sure if he would be able to speak with Mustang again either because he was too busy with this mysterious project or because he wasn't permitted – hence the riddle. Three, the project had something to do with his own memory, and the fact that nobody believed that his troops were alive. Four, and maybe most importantly, Ed did not trust Bormann, and perhaps didn't even trust Hughes. For why else wouldn't he have sought the help of Mustang's best friend and garden variety genius?

Unless he had.

"_You look tired, Hughes."_

He had.

Mustang swallowed thickly. This was something else entirely. In retrospect, it was clear now why Hughes' upset was down to issues of trust specifically. A guilty man hangs himself with scorn. Hughes didn't trust Mustang. That idea alone was insane.

"Why?" he asked the pigeon who, of course, didn't answer. "Why don't you trust me, Hughes?"

At that, the sound of tuning bagpipes filled the air outside his window. Mind still racing, he scrunched up the two pages and limped over to the window. He shooed the bird and opened the window as far as it would let him, then tearing out the sixty or so remaining pages, committed them to the wind.

He watched them rise and scatter on the breeze, and relished the cool wash of dry air on his face, so different from the South. Standing there, twelve floors above the ground, Mustang wondered what the nurses would think if they walked in at that moment. They'd have bolts put on the window in a matter of hours or very likely move his room. They were idiots. As if he'd consider suicide at a time like this.

His heart leapt in his chest.

"Hughes," he groaned. "Fuck you... fuck you for a desperate bastard..."

That was it. Of course. Hughes feared for his life. He shielded Mustang from the truth and moreover, probably instructed Ed to do the same in order to save his life. Hughes, being sure that suicide was a possibility then, must have felt that whatever Ed had revealed to him was dangerous. Bormann had plans for him – plans that Hughes thought would justify him taking his own life. His ears rang with the revelation.

Mustang watched the horizon – the vicious South - as if the truth might just pop out and reveal itself like an egg from a cracked shell.

White light powered into his vision and he crumpled at the window, clutching his head. It felt as though he'd fallen through the ice, down into a biting swirl of angry waters. Freezing pain pressed against his temples and he fought to fill his lungs. He fell to his side, all sense of space and gravity lost. In his mind, he reached for the call button, desperate for respite. In reality, all he could do was call out in a weak broken cry.

The door rebounded on its hinges and through magnificent effort, Mustang managed to push open his watering eyes to see a huge porter rush towards him. He was hefted to his feet, once again shamed as his trousers slipped past his waist and puddled at his heels. He had to fight this shock attack, had to regain himself or he'd loose more ground – especially today. It was vital he was strong today.

"I'm fine," he breathed, trying to steady himself with his broken arm on the man's bulky waist.

Caught in this strange waltz, they managed to stagger to the bed where Mustang was gently deposited, trembling and coughing.

What _was_ that? A bolt of electricity to the head. It could have been a clot, it _could_ have been a memory. He closed his eyes.

In the cold distance, the pipe band had started playing _The Flowers of the Forest, _but to Mustang it sounded as loud as if they were playing in his room.

"What happened to him?" another voice at the door asked.

The porter's hand tightened on his shoulder. And he must have shaken his head because the voice at the door merely sighed and entered, locking the door behind him.

A face materialised before Mustang's, and he had to blink a few times to clear his vision.

"You," he whispered.

Martin Bormann smiled and produced a handkerchief from the clean cut of his suit pocket. He used it to wipe a tear from Mustang's cheek.

"Thank god," he said. "I thought you were having a stroke."

Mustang flinched back, but caught between both men, he didn't have far to go.

"I don't want you here," Mustang said.

Bormann's small eyes studied Mustang a moment, amusement spilling out of them unabashedly.

"Well," he said, standing. He walked to the window and leant over it like a little girl at a ferry rail. "Shame is, Colonel, that anyone vaguely interested in stopping me is down there, burying your men. Not that there was anything left of them to bury. Oh! Did you get my little gift? I bet you sleep with it like a teddy bear."

In front of this man, this _Medusa, _Mustang's flesh turned to stone. Cool scorn made marble of him and all emotion in him died. Outside the pipes kept playing for the memory of his loved ones.

"You're wasting your time, Bormann. I'm tired and not in the mood for this nonsense. There's a newspaper stand on the third floor. Go and entertain yourself there."

With that, the Colonel shrugged out of the hold on his shoulder and reached for the blanket on the floor, sincerely mourning the loss of his trousers. The little bastard had probably asked the porter to wriggle them off. Anything for a jab at a man's dignity, and besides, were their roles reversed, Mustang would likely do the same.

As his fingers scraped the edge of the cotton, Bormann gave a neat nod.

Like a bull, the intern charged forward, falling on Mustang and crushing his body to the bed. The Colonel issued a strange, animal howl as his bad arm was yanked free and pinned behind his back, joined swiftly by his other arm.

"Bormann!" he roared. "Bormann! You can't -"

The secretary laughed; a rally of great big 'ha's'. As Mustang glared, leopard-like, sharp eyes seeking for an exposed throat, Bormann strolled around the bed, studying the room. He spotted what he wanted and pointed with a dainty finger.

"There – those pipes."

Mustang was hoisted by his armpits, then up again as the porter followed him onto the bed. He swung around, fist racing to strike the larger man but was quickly subdued by a knee to the groin. His knees buckled but he was caught again, and his arms restrained once more. He bit his lip to keep from screaming as tendons ground inside the cast. He felt a little something snap and shift.

A small bottle was produced, followed by a syringe.

Holding the bottle between finger and thumb, Bormann waved it in the air. Its dark contents glittered in the winter sun.

"Recognise this, Colonel?"

He did. He knew it very well indeed. He said nothing, just breathed and hurt.

"Ketamine! All for you. Lucky for us the funeral is today. No Hughes. No Fullmetal. And not to worry, we've let the ward staff know that any screams they might hear is a distressed commander, going slowly mad in his grief." He gave the bottle a cheerful jiggle. "It has the convenient quality of being an amnesiac, as well as being a potent anaesthetic. Really perfect, don't you think? Couldn't have done it better yourself, Mustang!"

Mustang paused his struggling in the larger man's arms. His legs were trembling, and already his heart was shaking him bodily from his ribcage to his shins.

"Screams?" he asked.

At that, Bormann gave another small nod and Mustang was lifted clean off his feet. He thrashed and bit and yelled for the staff, but Bormann remained totally unfazed. Second by second, Mustang's arms grew weaker and ached with the pain of over exertion. His left arm felt wet and so tender his eyes had started watering freely. He kicked, he bucked, he twisted and gnashed like a wild dog. His legs, weak and bone-thin made no impact though, and his yelling went unheard. Bormann stood just short of his kicking toes, unflinching when Mustang lashed out. As the porter dragged the Colonel's left arm away from his body and slotted it through a gap in the pipes, he made a sorry face.

"Such a pity," he tutted. "You'll probably lose the arm after this."

"No!" Mustang screamed. "No! No! No!"

Bormann grinned.

"No! Bormann!"

The porter's strong arms that until that point had been holding the Colonel aloft, vanished.

The snap was louder than anyone would have guessed.

Mustang wailed and hit the bed, then the floor at Bormann's feet.

"Careful of his head, idiot!" Bormann snapped.

Had he the faculty, even Mustang wouldn't have recognised the sound of his voice. People on the street below, distracted maybe by the moribund pipe music, would have mistaken it for a wounded cat, the screeching of machinery, anything... but not a man. Not a Colonel. Not the Flame Alchemist.

He was sobbing, choking on tears and drowning in excruciating pain. Somehow, _somehow_ he felt his arm flop against his back, but that was impossible – the angle was impossible. It wasn't just broken, it was utterly destroyed. It was a senseless limb, attached to him by pain alone.

"You bastard!" he howled. He tried to shout again but the words died in his mouth. He managed a pitiful bark, and a sort of high, hysterical whinny. He couldn't swallow. His stomach kicked and he vomited where he lay.

Bormann stepped back, tutting again. Then, calm and at his leisure, he drew the Ketamine into the needle and handed it to the porter.

The silent man crouched on top of Mustang's bucking, weeping form. As gently as he could, he emptied the drug into Mustang's neck.

Bormann pulled up a chair and sat, kicking his feet up onto Mustang's back.

"Any moment now, your brain will tell your spinal column to suppress muscle responsiveness, but you know this, don't you? Smuggling Ketamine in to those nasty little parties you and Knox had in Ishbal. What a strange idea, wasting a good anaesthetic on doomed sandrats. You really are one of a kind, Mustang."

"Why?" Mustang sobbed, though he'd stopped struggling. Not through his own volition, but now that the room was darker, he'd forgotten how to move his legs. Maybe he'd been paralysed all along. He couldn't say for sure...

"It's very common. Traumatised troops re-injure all the time. In fact, and this won't surprise you, it's reason enough for detainment. Sometimes criminal detainment! For their own good. And that's what people will say about you, Mustang! Colonel Hughes will feel awfully guilty, I should think. Maybe he shouldn't have left you alone, maybe he should have counselled you more, and so on. Poor fool."

Mustang knew those words. In isolation, he knew the meaning. But together... it wasn't...

Something wet hit the floor beside him, and though he felt a tug on his shoulder, and knew that pain was in the bargain somewhere, it seemed the world was short changing him because there was no real feeling at all. He giggled and rolled his eyes. Bormann giggled too, but the porter was silent. Creepy guys needed creepy henchmen, and Bormann really broke the mould with this monstrosity.

His eyes blearily picked out a broken cast and the jut of a bright white bone wrapped in festive, glistening flesh. It was artistic in its own way – this mess of sinew and bone, like nutmeg fruit or -

"Sweetbreads," Mustang mumbled into his vomit. A little more dribbled from his mouth.

Bormann leant forward, tilting his face back with his toe. "Mm?"

Mustang blinked. He was drowning now. He was sure. There was a flash, and white noise. Green eyes. Mud everywhere. He slipped. The flash. Impact. An empty field.

White.

Noise.

* * *

**Thanks all! ****Don't forget to leave a wee review if you have the time^^**


	7. Give Me Your Worst

_**Disclaimer: I don't own!**_

_**Thanks to the wonderful Kalirush as usual – she is brilliant. Thanks also to Disastergirl who listens to me moan about this albatross on a near daily basis!**_

_**Enjoy^^***_

* * *

_East City, 2nd March 1910_

_The walking oxymoron. Very likely the truth._

* * *

It was a Tuesday and the weather had just turned from the biting, impossible cold of winter to the first day of bearable chill. Fuery was on his way to a call-out, toolkit in hand. Feeling slightly more seasoned now that he actually had his technician's diploma mounted on his dorm wall, he affected a mean swagger as he went, enjoying the _Swish! Swish! _of his uniformed legs. Spotting two officers round the corner ahead of him, he discarded it immediately and saluted them, almost dropping his toolkit as he did so.

It was a while since Fuery had been to Lieutenant Colonel Mustang's office – a small affair, secreted in the upper most part of Eastern command, right at the back. The tiny windows, smeared with years of city grime and blasted with in-blown desert sand, overlooked the East City Cemetery, a view which the young Colonel apparently despised. He kept the windows covered with thick blinds and, according to rumours, made himself scarce on Memorial and Veterans Day. The lack of light and crowding ceilings lent his office an eccentricity that was wholly lacking from the man himself. The office, looking like a mad scientist's lab from a two cenz horror film, had charm, character... a certain kind of warmth. The Lieutenant Colonel, on the other hand, was as cold and as hard as the wrench lying in the bottom of Fuery's little case. It wasn't that he was impolite. He was just as civil as all the other brass, but he had that way of looking at you, sizing you up that made you feel like you'd be better placed on the bottom of his boot. Maybe that was just the way with alchemists. Maybe all the stories were true, that they _did _sacrifice a certain kind of humanity for all that power and fame. If that was so, then Mustang was a prime piece of evidence. Fuery didn't know how his staff did it, he sure as hell couldn't work for the man.

He arrived at the door, tucked his toolkit under his arm, and freed his hand to knock. There was a sudden hush on the other side of the heavy mahogany. A few moments later, the handle turned and the door opened inwards. A good thing too. Fuery's arm was killing him lugging that toolkit from basement to beams.

Towering in the doorway was a tall blond Second Lieutenant who Fuery remembered as Jean Havoc. He had a mess of stubble on his swarthy cheeks and looked entirely like he had just woken up. He sniffed.

"Corporal," he said, tone gruff and eyes ambiguous.

Fuery swapped his toolkit to his left arm and saluted. "Lieutenant, Sir."

Havoc grinned at that and stepped back, pulling the door with him. "You'll be doing a lot of saluting in here if you start with me, kid. Havoc's fine. Let me take that for you."

With his large hand, he scooped up Fuery's case before he could object. He carried it into the centre of the room, leaving the young Corporal all alone at the door.

Eight eyes stared back at him from the gloom, their whites shining. Only Mustang didn't look. He stood with his back turned, engaged in a call. He had the receiver propped between his ear and shoulder in that way Fuery always tried to master but failed. It must have something to do with the jaw, he thought.

At a loss, and temporarily spooked by the darkness and somewhat judging looks, he saluted again, clicking his heels. "Sirs!"

The eyes continued staring back, including those of Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. Her hand was perched on her hip, finger resting on her pistol like a cobra on a desert rock.

The only sounds were Mustang's short affirmations, a collection of grunts and sighs. In the silence and the soupy darkness, Fuery actually started to sweat. What the hell was this? Fuery's hand remained at his temple, stilled through disbelief more than anything else.

Suddenly, a laugh exploded in the quiet. A red-headed Warrant Officer ambled to his feet, guffawing from far down in his belly. Mustang's back froze and he issued a sharp glance of disapproval over his shoulder. He resumed his call with his head tucked down between his shoulders, eagle-like and desperately private.

"You born in a field, cub?" Breda asked, moving up behind Fuery and tapping the door closed behind him with his foot. He clapped a big hand down on his shoulder. "Ignore this lot, they've got no manners this time of the morning."

Havoc snickered and pulled the corners of his mouth down in amused agreement.

Hawkeye stepped out from behind her desk. She returned his salute, maybe even smiled a little. It was hard to tell. "At ease, Corporal."

The Sergeant, who until that time had remained silent and watchful, spoke then. "Wasn't it supposed to be Marshall?"

Breda came back to Fuery, resting his hand on his shoulder again. He swung his large face around to study Fuery. "This isn't Marshall?"

"Why, no. Marshall's... I'm -"

"Who isn't Marshall?"

Fuery's eyes shot up to meet Mustang's inky, fierce stare. The Lieutenant Colonel held the phone away from his ear, waiting.

When Fuery didn't answer after a time (his mouth engaged in flapping uselessly), Mustang sighed dramatically and changed his weight from one hip to the other. He raised his eyebrows.

"I'm not, Sir," Fuery answered at last, his eyes darting from one juror to the next. "I'm Kain Fuery. I was told you needed a technician." What was this!

Mustang turned back to face the covered window. "Get rid of him," he said, not bothering to look back. He was kind of an asshole, Fuery realised with a start.

The tiniest imaginable scowl crossed Hawkeye's face, while the Sergeant merely turned back to his work with a sniff.

Breda sighed beside him, massaging his shoulder a little with his heavy hand. He turned him and guided him back towards the door, speaking with a rumbling near-whisper.

"Don't be sore, kid. He's been like a devil all morning and nobody's safe – not even the Lieutenant there."

Reaching the door, Fuery shook his head. He asked in a whisper, "Is he always like this?"

Havoc, who'd join them to deposit Fuery's toolkit, did so and leaned on the wall. He shrugged. "Nah. Nah. He's not a bad sausage."

Breda nodded. "Not at all. And we really _were_ expecting Marshall."

That was it. What was their problem? He was a technician! He was qualified and what's more, he had more smarts than Marshall ever had. For one, he wasn't a dirty, no good, alcoholic like Marshall, stinking of cheap port and sleeping at the switchboard.

He tugged his toolkit closer to his body. "Well good luck, Sirs! You'll be waiting a long time, 'cos Marshall's been in the can since last night for passing out at the board and laying two MPs up in hospital because he missed their back-up call."

The phone clicked behind them.

There was that voice again, cold, deep and almost toneless. Like the guy who reads the transport forecasts on the NA Radio.

"And what do you make of that, Corporal?"

Fuery blinked back. There was something more to this question. Even an idiot could see that.

The alchemist laughed, his teeth bright white in the muddy room. "Do you always fret so over the simplest questions?"

Ass. "I believe that no question is ever simple, Sir, and I believe your aim is to have me speak ill of my superior."

"Who's incarcerated. Negligence kills in a job like ours."

"No judgement has been passed. The technicality remains that I am his subordinate, and bound by that."

Mustang's smile deepened. He reached in front of him and plucked a cigarette from a silver case. He lit it with a snap of his fingers, eyes still locked on Fuery. The Corporal hadn't even realised he was wearing his gloves until then.

"Are you always so faithful, Corporal?"

Hawkeye's large brown eyes darted to Mustang. "Sir," she said, though Fuery had not a single notion what that single word could possibly mean.

The door closed behind him.

"You needn't worry. It's a simple question, Lieutenant Hawkeye – or, as simple as questions can ever be. Have I got it right, Corporal?" He took a long draw on his thin cigarette.

"Sir," Fuery started, a little too brusquely. He collected himself and started again. "Sir, I just got a notice to come and look at your telephone. I'm a technician. I can satisfy any technical queries you might have and nothing else."

Mustang laughed and exhaled through a somewhat amazed pout. "What's your name?"

"Fuery, Sir. Kain Fuery."

"Fuery!" Mustang exclaimed as if in wonder, though it was really said with meanness, a sort of jeer. "You're kind of like a walking oxymoron. That's pretty... how would you say it... _neat_?"

Fuery bit his tongue for fear of reminding Mustang of the _neat _difference between a horse and an ass.

He shook his head. "Sir, I -"

"Please," Mustang said, hand racing out to pause Fuery. "Telephone your answer when you've worked it out."

With that, he took another deep drag, grabbed his coat from the hook and strode out from behind his desk. He extinguished his cigarette on a saucer sitting innocently on the edge of Hawkeye's desk, heedless of the charming, colourful biscuits there. To her answering look of pure astonishment, he blew a patronising, tacky and wholly inappropriate kiss. He even threw in a wink for good measure.

As he vanished through the door he called back an unbothered, "Have a look at the phone, kid. Knock yourself out."

Fuery stood in the middle of the floor, and shook. He couldn't feel it, being so numb with rage and humiliation, but the clattering of his tools in the kit gave him away.

"Well," Havoc drawled, slouching back to his desk. "That was something."

Breda plodded back too, snatching up one of the biscuits from Hawkeye's saucer and blowing ash from the top of it. "He really outdid himself this time." He popped the biscuit in his mouth, then turned to Fuery as if just remembering he was there. "Hey," he said through a mouthful. "Don't let him get to you, kid. Got to just let him do his thing and keep out of the way as best you can."

Fuery sniffed, despising the office, the team and the heat in his cheeks. "Don't, do, got to... Don't, do, got to... that's all it is. Over and over..."

Havoc lit up then. "Sounds like somebody should have become a baker instead of a soldier. Listen kid, be thankful you're following orders and not making them, that's all we have to worry about at our level."

"Even bakers gotta bake, Havo," said Breda. "Hey, Fuery. Just... you know, prove him wrong. Fix his phone. Mustang's the sort of guy who expects the worst in people, being an alchemist etc, etc, so just fix his phone."

Collecting himself as much as he could, Fuery held his toolkit tight against his side and made his way to the sleek black phone on Mustang's desk.

"What's wrong with it anyway?" he asked.

Hawkeye had returned to her seat, and spoke quietly without looking. "It's picking up a lot of interference. We think there's a bug."

"Huh," was all Fuery said. He threw his toolkit up on the desk, not minding the prim little cigarette case. He stifled a satisfied huff of laughter, hearing it crunch a little underneath the heavy metal box. Rolling his sleaves up, he started to work on the phone.

Just twenty minutes in, he'd opened up the body of the phone, cleaned the whole thing up and – surprising even to him – found a bug. A good bug, straight from the labs. The best in the world.

His fingers froze on the yellows and blues of the plastic entrails. There it was, just sitting there, red light flashing. The MX220 was a radio device which would explain the interference on the line, but its signal was the strongest of any known bug. It was also wired into the electrics of the phone so that it required no battery but just sat there, quiet and busy and very, very dangerous.

Now here was a conundrum. If the bug came straight from the labs, it meant that it wasn't just some jealous ladder climber who was after Mustang, but someone really well connected. It could be assumed then, that the person who was behind such a device being planted surpassed Mustang in rank. So where did that leave Fuery's loyalty, and professionalism at that?

There was also the small matter that Fuery loathed everything about Mustang, personally and philosophically speaking. The man was an unmitigated swine, ballbag and one-time desert-fiend.

His thoughts were interrupted as Hawkeye deposited a steaming cup of coffee beside him. Her smile was now as bright as the sound of the teaspoon on the crockery, all discomfort gone from her since Mustang's departure.

"I would offer you a biscuit, but unless you like smoked bourbon creams..."

Fuery smiled back, genuinely touched and more than a little affronted on behalf of this consummate professional and recognised ace. Mustang had winked at her for God's sake. It was unthinkable. His mind was made up then. _Fuck Mustang_, was the unanimous consensus of heart and head. "No," he said, smiling back. "No, it's fine. I'm finished here anyway."

He started piecing together the phone again, and was perhaps too scared of being caught to note the look of surprise on the Lieutenant's face. It was gone as soon as it materialised.

"You found nothing?" Hawkeye asked.

Within the twenty seconds since he decided to keep the bug hidden, his heart had started beating double time. The question, and Hawkeye's steady gaze did nothing to aid matters.

"Nothing at all," he answered, screwing on the base of the phone as steadily as he could. If the brass wanted him tapped, then Mustang must have been up to no good – or had a personality deserving suspicion at least. Were Mustang to find out about Fuery's own 'negligence' what would happen then? The alchemist was certainly powerful enough to wreak significant damage with the technician's career. This was tricky, very much so.

Still, if Mustang made enemies of the higher-ups, who was he – Fuery The Oxymoron – to put things right. He was a technician, not a member of the Secret Service.

Within mere minutes, the phone sat gleaming and whole once again on the Colonel's smooth desk. The same couldn't be said for the cigarette case which now sported a large dent, almost the length of it.

His heart racing, Fuery forced himself to pack his tools away in the same orderly fashion he unpacked them. He felt the eyes of the staff on him, but whenever he glanced up, they were all busy scrawling and leafing, yawning and pistol cleaning.

Pistol cleaning. Hawkeye smiled up at him, sensing his gaze on her. He smiled back and snapped shut the lid of his toolbox. The noise was like a judge's hammer.

He left with a bow and not a further word for fear of the small team hearing a lie in his voice.

There were fifteen floors and an entire wing between Mustang's office and the basement where Fuery worked. It took just a quarter of that distance for Fuery to stumble to a stop, sweating bullets and weighed down by the great guilt that had grown on him like a crust.

Mustang was right. He _was_ a sap.

Soldiers broke the rules all the time, officers even more so. Guys stayed out past their curfews and bribed the night watchman, Colonels turned over poker tables in fits of rage, refusing to pay up at the casino, threatening shut-downs and worse... but here was Fuery, knowingly implicating himself in espionage. If the tables turned and he was accused of criminal negligence, he could wind up in the slammer next to Marshall. And if Mustang had anything to do with it, he would probably see him on the first train North to Drachma.

The simple fact of the matter was, he was either a professional or a coward but either way he was going back to that office to tell them there was a bug in the damn phone.

If possible, Mustang ratcheted up a notch on Fuery's most-hated list.

Mustang stared at his phone. Or rather, Mustang continued to stare at his phone, as he had done since he'd heard Fuery leave and returned to his office. He'd been optimistic for all of half a second before Hawkeye shook her head, No. The boy hadn't worked out.

"You think he's practising his powers of levitation?" Havoc asked Breda quietly. Breda, mindful of the Colonel's now _genuinely_ bad mood, said nothing.

Falman tapped his pencil against the leather panel on his desk. "The odds were very promising."

"Well thank God we're not banking on odds alone," Mustang mumbled. He reached out and turned the back of the phone towards himself, looking at it in the same manner he would a stain, a dog turd or indeed, most children.

Speaking as she shuffled some papers into a neat rectangle Hawkeye counselled, "We can't be lucky all the time, Sir. There'll be other technicians."

"Except all the other technicians are twice the kid's age and as crooked as the road to Xing," supplied Breda.

Mustang puffed out his cheeks and released the air slowly. He twirled the telephone cord with one gloved finger. "Breda's right. Until we find another suitable candidate, Falman, you should continue your night schooling. We need someone who's able to change a plug at least."

"Still though, Sir," Havoc grinned. "That was some performance. Even I sort of bought it."

"Maybe it was too much?" Hawkeye asked. "He's a boy of very solid morals. His sister runs a liberal press in the West and his uncle's a union man."

Breda laughed. "The wink was a little uncalled for, surely?"

Mustang shook his head. "There's no such thing as too much. He's a technician. He should have been looking for the lie in the equipment, not the person." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Damn him. I really wanted him."

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," Hawkeye called, though her eyes were on Mustang, surprised and cautiously gleeful.

The door turned and young Corporal Fuery entered, his eyes pinned to the floor and his toolkit still in hand.

He took a deep breath and saluted. "Lieutenant Colonel Mustang, Sir!"

"Corporal. I see you -"

"Please be quiet and allow me to finish, Sir. There's a bug in your phone."

Havoc swivelled his chair towards Breda, all googly eyes and open mouth. Smiling, Breda waved him off with a hand, too engrossed in this show of bravery, albeit totally unnecessary bravery. By now Mustang was smiling too. Not that smirk, but the real deal. The one that knocked socks off and lit up his eyes like the Grand Central Hotel.

"Corporal, you -"

Fuery set his toolkit down on Falman's desk. The Sergeant looked mildly horrified at the dark scuffs on the corners of the tin.

"And lucky you are too that I came back to tell you. That bug's the best in the business and would have had you strung up in no time!"

Mustang laughed, a short yelp of a thing. "Fuery, I -"

"I joined this military to serve the people of Amestris in the best way I could, and that's machines. So yes, I'm a mousy technician. Just like every other mousy technician. With all due respect, Sir, you can't expect everyone to run around with their coattails flying like you. Some people have got to fix the wires and dig the ditches. In fact, the way you treat your staff is downright ugly. The Lieutenant there -"

Hawkeye stepped forward, pacifying hands waving. "Please Corporal, that's really not -"

"It is, Ma'am... Sir," said Fuery, missing Havoc silently howl at 'Ma'am-Sir'. "Colonel Mustang, that's all I came to say. There's a bug in your phone and I'm sorry I didn't report it at the time. I let your ugly attitude get in the way of my own ethics, but I won't be pushed or pulled into doing something I think is wrong. It just took me a while to work it out this time."

There was silence.

"So, there. Do with me what you will."

More silence. Hawkeye coughed a little, but that didn't really count. Mustang took a deep breath, looking utterly lost for words. Fuery decided to help him along. He'd be out of work tomorrow at best. At worst, Mustang would have him hauled in front of a disciplinary. Maybe even frame _him_ for the bug.

"I'm sure you want to call down to personnel."

Mustang puffed out his cheeks again and nodded an emphatic, Yes.

Fuery closed his eyes. There it was, then. The end of his fledgling military career, all because he saved the skin of an officer he hated. What the hell would he do for an officer he _liked_?

"Take a seat, Fuery," Mustang said quietly from behind his hands which were folded delicately at his mouth.

Fuery looked up, incredulous. "I'm sure it won't take that long, Sir."

Mustang's eyes were gleaming, black pools dancing in the scant light. He dropped his hands to the desk. His teeth really were very white. "Falman, get me personnel on the phone, will you? Tell them I want Fuery's papers with me by close of play today. If they want to argue, tell them you'll happily patch them through to Grumman. He's waiting for their call."

Mustang's eyes leapt back to Fuery. "Grumman supplied us with the bug."

"Huh?" Fuery managed, which was commendable, given that all the blood had rushed to his feet. He felt light-headed. Was this a sting? Some kind of latent test following his diploma? He was waiting for the military police to rush in at any second.

The Lieutenant Colonel nodded to Breda who stood and wheeled a chair across to face Mustang, he then guided a dumbstruck Fuery to sit in it.

"I suggest you take a seat, kid," he said, clapping the back of his neck. He leant down and whispered in his ear, "Well done, by the way. We were rooting for you."

"Damn sure!" laughed Havoc. "Word is you're a lousy poker player."

Mustang sat back in his high leather chair, the image of an emperor who'd just won the war and all the world. He steepled his fingers in front of him.

"I'm afraid we haven't been entirely honest with you, Corporal," he said.

Fuery stared, open-mouthed. A shard of light broke in from under the blinds behind Mustang and bounced off the dented cigarette case in the bin beside the desk. Its opened lid showed it was empty, and Fuery knew that what Mustang said then, was very likely the truth.

* * *

_Central City, 2nd November 1915_

_Sing a Song of Sixpence. Give me your worst._

* * *

He was getting a cold.

Balancing the huge, tabloid-sized ledger across his lap, Ed reached up and felt the sides of his neck. He felt the tender hardness of his swollen glands beneath. The cool air of the lab did nothing to help. Though Bormann had let him know he was lucky to have an office of his own at all. Most of the other alchemists worked in a sort of factory environment, all toiling towards the same horrible end.

"Shit," he said. He ran a hand through his hair and considered the huge tome again. Each page of each volume of research held three to four arrays, each with their own notes. Occasionally there were pictures attached and details of the 'subjects' on which the experimental arrays were used. Bormann had assured him that any human candidates had been prisoners sentenced to death, but when Ed had mentioned Armstrong's pitiful condition, the secretary had merely chuckled, saying that he'd 'quite forgotten.'

He'd then offered Ed prisoners of his own, should he wish to try out his research before subjecting the Colonel to it.

Ed wondered if Bormann was even aware of the extent of his monstrosity. He talked about such horrors with a lightness that more befitted a friendly game of pinochle. The young alchemist really couldn't decide which was scarier; a knowing or an oblivious fiend.

He swallowed past his sore throat and turned back to the volume. In the twenty or so hours he'd been sifitng through the research, he did see flashes of promise and the occasional breakthrough but the early research was an unmitigated disaster. Any animals who weren't 'lucky' enough to wind up as 'pets' in Bormann's office were simply liquidised on the spot. They suffered from aneurysms, serious blod clots and worse, as some of the early shots revealed. There's a lot of matter in the cranium, and if it's altered in the wrong way then... well, it's like the fireworks festival at Xingese New Year.

An image of Mustang dead and bleeding from the ears flashed before him. Dead by his hands just because he'd missed something, because he wasn't good enough.

_Or because Mustang wanted it that way_, a voice whispered.

"Shit! Shit and shit!" Ed shouted and slammed the book closed. He let it slip to the ground.

His eyes stung with the familiar heat of tears. His hand shook and grabbing a handful of hair did little to still it.

The impossibility of the whole situation swelled above him like a thundercloud. The impossibility of the entire team dead, of Hughes secretive and permissive, of Mustang wounded, unsure and fragile.

Where was Hawkeye's strong calm and clear guidance? Where was Havoc's syncopated intelligence, his wry, solid assurances? Where was Breda's back-of-house wheelings and dealings? Fuery's loyalty? Falman's consistency?

Nowhere. No. Not nowhere. Tolven. In the shitty Tolven earth, food for the fucking plants or whatever the fuck grew there.

Ed thumped the desk and whispered, "Fuck you, Hughes." Though he didn't mean it. He really didn't, but he had to lash out somewhere now that Bormann had all their dicks in his hand, ready to give them the squeeze if they put one foot wrong. Hughes had probably spent the whole day since the funeral looking for him, and here he was, in his secret cave designing the despicable.

Just impossible.

Gathering himself, he regarded his work so far. It was scattered before him on the table in a wide arc of crumpled sheets, scribbled notes and dirty napkins. He certainly had something. He could see the parts, and had worked _those _out in a matter of hours, but the question was the whole. To complete step A and not say, step C, in a sequence of even forty of fifty steps could spell the end of Mustang, or maybe even of Ed. It wouldn't be the first time an alchemist died in pursuit of this lunatic project. Everything had to be perfect. From _The Swallow_, as Bormann called it – the part that registered experience – to _The Recall_, every single step of the array had to be not only perfect, but sustainable. There would be no point in Ed perfecting an array that worked at X point in time, only to discover one week later that Mustang couldn't remember where he left his car keys or whether or not he did up his fly.

Ed groaned. The phone in front of him held the promise of calling Hughes, but the funeral was only yesterday and since Ed didn't attend, he was feeling more than a little sheepish. While Hughes was burying the memory of the team in a figurative sense, Ed was being a little more literal, as far as Mustang was concerned at least.

And there it was. That deep, deep sense of betrayal again. Every now and then as Ed worked, it swept up his spine like a bad chill. For while Ed trusted Hughes – his closeness to Mustang as well as the man's inarguable intellect – he couldn't help but feel he was doing wrong by his lost and ailing friend. Were it a case of Ed and Al, would Ed reveal the truth knowing he was practically putting the gun against his own brother's temple? No. He absolutely couldn't. He would pick up the same burden Hughes had, and would live with it. Ed laughed, a sour bark of a thing, and considered whether he and Al hadn't already done that, maybe even twice over. Their mother, their pact... the lies they told themselves, each other and everybody else.

But Mustang... or Hawkeye...

Ed couldn't help but think that were the shoe on the other foot, Mustang would have had the job done by now. If he knew what was in store for his friend: a spectral existence, living in the shadow of memory, without love or a past; without anything but the military road stretching ahead through blood and honour, war and toil – yes, Mustang would have ended it by now. He would have told Hughes an old joke and while the man was laughing, wiping tears from his eyes, Mustang would snuff him out like a candle.

As for Hawkeye, Ed had no doubt that she would save the soul of the Flame Alchemist before she'd spare his body, and the only answer was death. His mind played out the scene: she'd bring him coffee he hadn't requested, and in that moment of light confusion, she'd kill him. One bullet for him, then maybe – probably? - one for her.

So where did that leave Ed? If Hughes thought that Mustang's fate was such an inevitability, then he had two choices (though for a sickening five minutes in the early hours that morning, he'd considered his third choice: flee and do some forgetting of his own). He could design the array as well as he could and spare Mustang's mind at least, or he could rig the array and kill Mustang right there, under Bormann's nose. It was then a given that Ed would be the next candidate, and would lose any memory of Al and Hughes and everyone else, forever. He couldn't allow that to happen.

_But you'd do it to Mustang,_ the voice said.

The voice was right. And besides, hadn't Ed got the message to Mustang anyway? Despite Hughes? He'd led Mustang by a trail of breadcrumbs to the truth about his fate, and surely that was as dangerous as telling him outright. Was he then urging Mustang to kill himself where Ed nor Hughes nor anyone else was brave enough?

Ed stood and stretched. His back gave a series of little pops and his automail leg felt especially tired since he'd been sitting for so long. He looked at his notes again.

Of course the best way to ensure his success was to use the prisoners and terminal patients Bormann had offered him. Ed had answered the offer with a tantrum that would have made Mustang proud, being one of his best and most explosive. He was already operating in a moral swamp, but there had to be some limits to this insanity. He would never _ever_ consider testing alchemy on humans, living or dead.

_Mustang did. In Ishbal. Had he considered it impossible once, too?_

"Piss... Off," Ed whispered.

He needed to get out of here. He needed to breathe and to think, far away from arrays and pictures of monkeys with shaved heads. He needed some grounding and maybe a little inspiration.

He was on a tram and heading to the hospital ten minutes later.

The infirmary was quiet at this time of the day - that awkward space just past dinner, when most families had returned home and others had yet to arrive. Many of the patients would be sleeping, tired out by a day's healing. Ed knew it too well: convalescence was a prick.

Wary of the green-eyed, perky nurse whose sole redeeming quality was access to a cooked breakfast, Ed made his way towards Mustang's room. He knew as soon as he turned the corner that something was wrong. Something about that open door and the crusty mop-bucket outside made his heart leap in his chest. From within, whistling could be heard: Sing a Song of Sixpence. Ed raced towards the room.

He nearly slipped on the soapy mess at the threshold as he pushed open the door. The windows were open and the bed was stripped. The room stank of disinfectant.

On the floor, on hands and knees was a cleaner. His cloth was brown with bad blood. Still ignorant of Ed, he pulled it back and forth streaking the floor like a kid with his first box of watercolours.

Ed stumbled further into the room. The cleaner paused his whistling and looked back over his shoulder.

"Oh," he said.

Ed's wide eyes drank in every detail of the cleaner's face in that moment. Even forty years from now, he was sure he could describe every last thing about that man's face.

He'd done it. Mustang had cracked his code and done the deed with all the speed and conviction Ed knew him capable of.

"What," he started, and stopped swallowing. "When did he - ? When?"

The cleaner sat back on his heels. He wrung out his cloth into an orange tub by his side and slapped it down on his lap as he thought.

"Last night... at least," he said, blue eyes searching for the details. "No." He turned and pointed a finger at Ed, suddenly enlightened. "I'll tell you when it was, just about the time of the big funeral across the way. They say he just snapped, couldn't take it. That Hughes fellow was right and upset when he found out. Thought he was going to tear the whole building down."

Ed tottered to the bed, his flesh leg threatening to buckle. His eyes stung and the first tears dripped fat and hot down his cheeks.

"That _bastard,"_ he said into his palms. "Mustang you bastard."

The cleaner had stilled where he sat and regarded Ed a while. Then after a time he stood and sat beside him on the bare mattress. "Come on now," he said, jostling Ed a little. "It's not all bad. They say there's all sorts of new treatments for this kind of thing. Mental like."

Ed closed his eyes. His heart hammered in his chest with that awful rhythm of _he's dead, he's dead, he's dead, he's dead. _He took each word the cleaner had spoken and chewed on it carefully. He did it twice over, and only after that, did he dare to ask, "He's not dead?"

The cleaner sucked in a great big breath and shook his head. "What? No!" He grabbed Ed by the shoulder. "He's up on the fourteenth floor, high as a kite. Broke his arm apparently – shattered it. They say it was like a bag of marbles by the time they got him to surgery."

"Oh my G_od," _Ed said, unsure if he was angry or positively in love with the cleaner. He would have socked him or kissed if he wasn't already on his feet and dashing for the door.

"Hey!" the cleaner called.

Ed spun back and just about caught the small metal object the man flung at him.

"They forgot his thingy. Found it on the post there," the man said, then rose from the bed to begin his work again.

Ed muttered a thanks, pocketed the chain and sped out of the room.

The fourteenth floor was even quieter than the twelfth, with only a few nurses and one tired looking doctor in sight. After a few enquiries, and more than a few strange looks – for Ed was still red-eyed and short of breath from his premature mourning – he managed to find Mustang's new room.

He placed his hand on the door knob and took a deep, steadying breath. Calming himself, he entered as quietly as he could, and without looking back, gently closed the door.

The room was dark; a muted space of gloomy browns and the soft bleeping of equipment. There were no flowers here, no little touches, and the time could have been anywhere from high noon to midnight. This was a sick space, and frightfully sad.

The Colonel lay on his back, wired up like a transistor radio. His eyes were open, just, but he hadn't registered Ed's presence in the room. Couldn't, maybe. His skin was ghastly, stretched across his high cheekbones that had degraded from _sharp_ and _killer_ to _jutting_ and _skeletal_. Ed imagined you could serve soup out of the hollows in his cheeks, they were so pronounced. An oxygen tube snaked into his mouth while two others ran into his right hand and down beneath his blankets. Then another two ran up from his arm, or from what was left of it.

They'd amputated it from just beneath the shoulder.

"Oh Colonel," Ed moaned and fell to his knees beside him. He braved a touch, and ran the back of his fingers along the man's jaw, but still there was no response. Mustang's dead, drugged eyes just went on staring.

"Why? Why Mustang?" Ed asked, eyes searching, burning, pushing through for some response. "I shouldn't have told you. Hughes was right. I'm such a selfish idiot. What a bum, what a stupid fool."

Not for the first time since the nightmare began, Ed wept. He dragged himself to the other side of the bed and bending double, wept into the bare skin of Mustang's right arm until the sheets were soaked beneath it. He cried until there was nothing left, all in the company of a commander who was absent from himself – jettisoned from the world by painkillers, his eyes too much like Armstrong's.

Forty minutes later, Ed left the hospital, having stayed with the unseeing Mustang until the man's eyes drifted shut and he fell into an equally unknowing slumber.

Outside the hospital grounds, Ed found the first public phonebooth he could. He dialled the number he knew by heart by now.

"Bormann," Ed said. "I'll take 'em. The prisoners. Give me your worst."

* * *

Thanks chaps. xx


	8. Tell Them My Body Was Clean

**Disclaimer: I don't own.**

Mega thanks to the amazing Kalirush who managed to beta the first part (Tolven part) I finished before she went away to Brazil. The second part is un-beta'd as I just finished it tonight, together with my raging hangover. So please forgive any crazy mistakes. I'll check it over again when I can – but a busy day awaits me in the morning. Be kind! ^^

I wish I was less impatient to post things _

* * *

_Tolven, 14th October 1915_

_The good they owe. A stolen heartbeat. Tell them my body was clean._

* * *

When the rain finally arrived, it did so zealously, as a restive young dog just let off the leash. The small outfit of soldiers sprang into action, pulling the waterproof tarps up and over their tents. They cursed the awkward pins and hooks, and their own foolishness at not having prepared sooner as Mustang's team had done. General Vought had suggested they ready themselves for the inclement weather, but without knowing for sure whether the clouds would burst, he hadn't made it mandatory. So they cursed him too.

Even though the morning was still young, the skies loomed a heavy grey. The clouds above them billowed and boiled, abundant with plump droplets of rain that hammered down upon the open fields of Tolven. The Sugar Loaf, usually offensive in its immovable girth, was barely visible – just a purple outline through the sheets of rain. Any man who saw the lone scout ride out that morning pitied him immensely, for already the earth was sliding under their feet, a stew of pebbles and muck. Mustang charged amongst the tents, the hem of his serge greatcoat flapping at his calves, and ordered all spare hands to break up the ammunition cases. He'd reinforced the munitions tent and they could use the wood to fashion walkways between key spots in the camp. He privately admonished the quartermaster for not thinking of the same, but didn't linger. Seeing men rush to follow his command, he set to making sure the perishable supplies were in good order.

Vought, together with Hawkeye, surveyed the map and speculated on the success of their mounted scout. Amestrian Tolven was about as far as modern intelligence went for the Amestrian Government, the Aerugonian side being peppered with mines and walled in by two steep cliffs. From the top of them, stretched vast plateaux that made invasion from North to South nearly impossible. Any soldier worth her salt knew of the 1557 massacre, in which Amestrian soldiers pushing South were crushed under boulders rolled over the lips of the cliffs. Any survivors were picked off easily from the grassy eaves above them. And so 'Aerugonian Tolven' was known locally as _Grave dei Settentrionali – _Grave of the Northerners.

By afternoon, the rain showed no sign of stopping and during some periods, even increased – unbelievably – to an even more intense show of nature. All hatches battened down, as it were, each man sat in his own tent, secure with his own unit. Occasionally Vought sent his Lieutenants to check on the men, and Mustang completed a few spot checks – happy to find the troops relaxed but focussed when questioned on the details of their assignment. Mustang, thanked the rain for one thing then – it kicked any complacency right out of the boys who thought they would be sunning themselves and tripping into Tolven Main for a taste of local delicacies. The grey darkness and crushing skies subdued them, it bade them be solemn and limited their movements.

Finishing a check on the quartermaster who was busy itemising months worth of food (Central had been kind to this mission on account of their having only one alchemist), Mustang returned to his tent. In the rough porch, he shed his coat and used an already damp towel to rub off the worst of the wet. He expected Hawkeye back from Vought's tent at any moment, and tried his best to still the boyish fluttering in his heart and stomach. She could slip, she could get ill... then there was stress... anxiety... she might lean the wrong way... or bleed...

_Could be a blessing..._

"Fuery," he said, quieting himself. "Fetch me a coffee, will you? Nice and strong, atta boy."

Havoc glanced up from cleaning out his nails, curiosity piqued by Mustang's forced casualness. Havoc had seen Mustang drunk, wearing nothing but his breeches and a pair of lady's underwear but hadn't heard anything as ridiculous as 'atta boy' pass his lips.

"_Atta boy_ Colonel?" he asked, returning to the work at hand; digging the knife in good and proper beneath his yellowed thumbnail.

Taking the steaming coffee from Fuery with a nod, Mustang awkwardly ignored his Lieutenant, drinking noisily from the enamel cup.

"Okay," Havoc sing-songed.

Breda, who lay more gracefully than anyone would credit him capable off, sat up on his elbows and regarded Havoc first, then his commander. His red eyes were curious in a different way from Havoc's. With Breda, as with Mustang, a smile was never a sure sign of mirth.

"Fifth cup of coffee today, Sir," said Breda.

Again, Mustang slurped noisily and simply glanced at the man by way of response. His dark eyes were dancing under his scowling brows, over-bright and overtired.

"Keeps away cellulite," Falman mumbled from his cot.

Breda straightened up and swung his legs out before him, leaning back on his large, hairy hands. "What would Hawkeye say about that? She'd say -"

"He measures his life in spoonfuls of coffee," a voice sounded from the porch. The voice promptly indulged in a long, annoyed growl. It was Hawkeye, and she wasn't nearly as pragmatic about the rain as Mustang was – or pretended to be.

Havoc and Breda, rather than watching for Hawkeye's entrance, watched Mustang's face. It was like waiting for a shooting star. You could wait and wait and only ever see a dull wash of tiny stars, but when you did catch an asteroid – boy did it blaze. Mustang's eyes filled with light and his cheeks with heat. His throat bobbed and his left knee gave that little kick they were all used to. Of course, Mustang – acting beautifully and not looking back - simply raised the cup to his mouth and took another noisy sip.

"That's not very becoming, Sir," Hawkeye said through a smile as she entered the room. She nodded at her teammates and sat daintily on the cot beside Breda. Her hair was wet and clung to her cheeks and neck. She grabbed a towel and closing her eyes, dabbed her face dry, heaving a great sigh as she did so.

There came the noisiest slurp yet.

Hawkeye looked up at Mustang, her face full of warmth. "Lovely, Sir. Very demure."

Again, Havoc felt as though he'd walked into a toilet that was already occupied. He and Breda joked with the Colonel, of course they did – but when Hawkeye did it, it was something else. She had a way of burying a whole load of sensuality together with her wit and leaving only the tip exposed, the tiniest thread to hint at its existence.

Mustang's dark eyes settled on her, wolfish and unamused. His left knee rose and fell, rose and fell, like the coupling rods of a steam engine. He coughed and gestured to Fuery for a refill. The boy complied and when his back was turned to his commander, he cast Breda a skittish glance.

Mustang received his sixth cup of coffee of the day. Clasping the cup with both hands, he leant forward to speak to his aide.

"What did Vought make of the weather?"

Hawkeye thanked Fuery who'd rushed another cup to her. She took a long draught before speaking, mindful of Mustang's hungry stare. "Excuse me, Sir," she said, noticing his growing impatience. "We discussed our location and compared the _Marx and Cavern _map to the National Cartographer Association's. There is little difference between the two, only the names on the NCA's are written in Aerugonian on the other side of the border. The NCA also shows a small lake north of Aerugonian Tolven, but Vought considered it unimportant. I agree."

Mustang mumbled and waved a hand, continue.

"He thinks we are well placed and posted a sentry on the Southern slope of the Sugar Loaf. He's cautious about moving further across the field as the National Aerugonian Front had ample time to bury mines had they wanted to. We discussed your detonating them, Sir." Hawkeye drank deeply then, watching him as he watched her over the lip of her cup.

Breda shifted where he sat.

"How's that happen?" he asked.

Mustang ran a hand through his hair and puffed out his cheeks. "It's not a big job. Increase air density, get some pressure going... enough to trigger the devices. The problem is, we don't know the size of the explosions-"

A thunderous crash split the air, and the gloom of the tent flashed blue and white. Everyone in the tent threw themselves to the floor except Fuery, who stood frozen by the pot. The noise rolled on, crackling and sputtering for a long time until anyone could think clearly again. It was Havoc who spoke first.

"Goddamn it Mustang! Do you time these fucking things?"

Falman sat up, his face a little white. "Thunder! It's just thunder!"

Breda was next off the floor. "You do have a penchant for the dramatic, Sir."

Mustang and Hawkeye rose from their crouch, each more shaken than their spilled coffee could account for. The Colonel licked a dark drip off his thumb.

"Lesson, Fuery. It's always a good policy in an active engagement to duck when you hear loud noises, even if you spill coffee on yourself and look like a complete idiot afterwards."

"Live to make another cup," Havoc chimed in, hunting for the knife he'd casually tossed in his haste to dive. He was glad Mustang didn't see _that_.

"Okay, let's get on the radio to Hughes and find out the general weight of mines used by NAF. If they're all from the same supplier, then we're in a good place to judge. If they're generally homemade then I don't even want anyone to fart in that direction."

"Better get Breda on the next train home then," Havoc laughed.

"Straight into the arms of your mother, Jean," said Breda. "Oh – did I say arms?"

Hawkeye quirked an eyebrow. "Charming."

Breda turned to her and nodded seriously. "It's what Mrs Havoc likes best about me."

A quiet laugh broke between them and Breda beamed at having caused it. The heavy mood was choking him, and he didn't like the thought of letting Mustang brood too deeply. He was tired and it wasn't doing him much good, but he knew Mustang's time was precious and the last thing he wanted to do was ass around with jokes about Havoc's mother. As much fun as that was.

"Hey, Fuery?"

"Huh?"

"That the last of the coffee?" Breda asked, standing stiffly and lumbering over to him.

Fuery could see, deep in Breda's eyes that there were flags waving – flags of meaning. Meaning he was not grasping.

"Uh... no, there's -"

Breda gave him a withering look and leant over him to spy into the mostly full coffee pot. "Ah – shit. You did it Sirs. You just threw away the last of the coffee." He turned his gaze back to Fuery. "Come with me, kid. Help me refill. The quartermaster lost a bet to me back in '09 and I think he's kind of sore about it. I won a pony that I managed to sell on. Cute thing too."

Havoc was quicker to pick up the scent than Fuery and had already stood and stretched. "I'm going for a smoke," he said. "Sir," he turned to Mustang. "I'll try my very best not to fart South."

Mustang gave him a look that said, 'How'd I end up with you lot?' but meant a humongous, 'Thank you.'

Havoc called back over another fierce boom of thunder. "I'll try, I mean, I'll try. But no promises, know what I mean?"

Breda was leading Fuery by the arm out of the tent and was about to exit when he noticed the grey head that was buried resolutely in a book.

"Falman," he sighed.

Falman coughed and nestled further down in his little cot.

Breda put his free hand on his hip and leant heavily on one leg. "Hey! Falman!"

Reluctantly, the Warrant Officer looked up from his book. He was wary, hare-like, and very clearly, did not want to shift.

Breda tossed his head: let's go.

"But it's raining."

Finally, it was Hawkeye who did it. Of course. "I heard one of the latrines fell in. Vought wants someone to oversee its repair."

Falman had his coat on and was out of the tent before even Breda was.

The Second Lieutenant allowed Fuery to go first then smiled back at his commanders. "Be good kids."

Mustang smiled in return, glumly almost. He hated that Breda _knew_, that his cloak had slipped and showed a portion of their sin, like the scent of perfume left on the collar of an unfaithful husband's shirt. He also hated that Breda's knowing was a boon, sweet and safe, on which he was now dependent in times like this.

"Thanks for the coffee, Breda."

"Can't live without your coffee, Sir."

He zipped the tent closed as he exited.

Alone now, Mustang and Hawkeye regarded one another like gladiators across the arena. His stare was black and willful, hers calm and calculating. Another huge blast of thunder rattled the tin wares around them and the shadows on their faces danced in the blue flash.

"You're worried," she said, eyes locked on his eyes. Her straight back and strong forearm stretched out before her recalled a tamer of falcons, ready and unafraid of sharp talons and razor beak. It was her job, to bear that weight and be proud, for not everyone could be a master falconer.

He breathed, still looking. His left knee stilled. The world lit up and there was a deafening crash, the loudest yet.

He flew to her, his right hand pinning her arm while his left skittered about her shoulder and neck, landing finally on her cheek. Bothered or fussy – _distressed _even, he pushed back the damp hair from her face, eyes searching, digging: deep, deep, deep into the middle of her.

Ignited by the thunder, the smell of smoke and coffee on him and the heat that rose from chest and cheek, she took him with both hands and pulled him forwards and on top, the two of them grunting and senseless. The right hand followed the question in his heart and slid down her side to her belly, where it pressed and searched.

"I'm okay," Hawkeye whispered into his ear. Her lips drew an arc across his forehead and she whispered in the other, smiling. "We're okay."

Mustang pulled back. His cheeks were flagged with red and his nostrils flared. He was enraged, full of unspent energy and angry at her distance until that moment. It was his way. To rage on her behalf that he couldn't be better to her, couldn't touch her in such a manner until these clandestine moments when they operated under the kindnesses granted by their quick comrades. He took her ear between finger and thumb and tugged roughly.

"How many fingers?" he asked, panting and drunk seeming.

Hawkeye too, had to find her breath. "He gave us ten, but he can't account for Falman."

It was Hawkeye who noticed Breda's signal at first; the way he would wave with one hand or two, or sometimes two, twice over. One hand meant they had five minutes, two that they had ten and so on.

"Ten," Mustang groaned. He spilled forward and pressed his lips to her neck. He bit a little. He was, in these moments, largely animal and frightfully possessive.

Hawkeye rested her hand in his hair. She bowed and placed a kiss there too, laughing softly when he moaned into the underside of her jaw. "We're lucky we got even that."

Mustang sat back on his heels and pulled her with him. He turned her, still fussing with her hair, and sat her back against his belly. She could feel his heart hammer through his uniform and her toes curled a little in her boots.

"I'll have Falman test out the size of those mines."

"You shouldn't joke," Hawkeye whispered. "You'll feel guilty if something happens."

Mustang sighed through his nose. Or it could have been a laugh. "I'll feel guilty either way."

Hawkeye strained to look up at him. "I know."

She turned in his lap and took his face with her hands. She pressed a kiss to his lips and pulled back, just as he tried to take her with his teeth. They clicked closed neatly. His eyes narrowed and he scowled.

"You're worried," she repeated.

Mustang groaned, a little too indulgently even for him, and tried to steal another kiss. He sighed when he failed.

"You can tell me how worried I am when the others get back," he complained.

Hawkeye pressed her lips together and leant against him again. He folded his arms around her and clenched his legs either side, trapping her, owning her, compelling her with will and force and all the gravity of his person. He rested his chin on her shoulder and spoke into her ear.

"Not about this, we can't." His finger tapped a button on her jacket, right where her growing belly was.

"It isn't fair to the others, that you should worry so about me," she said, as kindly as she could, because the words themselves were cruel. But they were true.

Mustang issued a noise that was closer to a bleat than anything else, because he knew they were true too. They had been foolish. Knox said terminate and they said no, they wouldn't kill their child so lightly. Knox rebuked them, saying they wouldn't be _killing_ anything. He'd had bigger poached eggs, he'd said. But Mustang, he lived by opposition and had perhaps grown so used to his position that he discarded Knox's advice at once. Then Hawkeye, expert falconer, tightened Mustang's leash and suggested they rethink things after the mission. So there they were, each performing their roles with perfect conviction.

But they were wrong to wait, and they saw it as soon as the train struck the horse outside Tolven. The unborn child was a burden that neither of them were fit to handle, because it wasn't their first, and the other lay in an unmarked grave, harrowed long ago. Except then, the choice had been made for them, so their guilt was superfluous and they rejoiced in a manner solemn, that their youth had been spared.

"Must every choice we make end with a death?" Mustang asked, conscious himself of the drama in his words but utterly uncaring. He spoke as he lived.

Hawkeye flinched at the next peal of thunder, and waited it out before she spoke. She chose her words carefully. "With us, Sir, it's now a matter of accounting. This is small... considering..."

Mustang's hand gripped her jacket at her belly and he made a fist, suddenly overcome with great emotion. He was thirty now, so maybe this was paternal fury, but he felt it grief – a grave, personal wrong. This girl, again, carried his baby – a child that would likely be dark and petite, either a rascal or an angel – and here they were, considering its end. He wasn't sentimental, and was at the centre of things a scientist, but he couldn't help but think that its little heart was already beating.

"It can hear the thunder."

"Sir," Hawkeye whispered. "Please..."

Breathing heavily, excited by the storm and Hawkeye quivering between his legs, he pushed his nose against thorat. That one angry hand of his still gripped at her belly. His hot breath washed against her cheek and into her ears. He was trembling terribly. They both were; superheated and unable to let anything go.

He paused his near-animal fussing and spoke in a hush. Mumbling against her neck, she failed to hear him. She guided his head up with her hands, seeking his eyes.

"Let me retire you back to Central."

His eyes were earnest, his tone afraid. Another clap of thunder made him flinch. Some strange reaction was stirring inside him, chemical, volatile and in need of putting out.

"The others will be back soon," she said quickly, attempting to stand.

He yanked her back toward him with one hand and caught her gently with the other. He took her elbow. "One time Hawkeye. Let's take advantage just one time. Let me send you away: our office needs tending to, you're not well, a death in the family – Hughes could arrange something. In all these years... I have the power to do someth-"

"This is about more than us, Sir. You're not thinking clearly. This is _more_ than you and I."

Rage flared and died in his eyes, his face seeming ugly almost – only for an instant. She knew this man. She knew all the faces and humours of Roy Mustang. The child of murdered parents; sick of playing the same game, over and over with the same losing hand.

His fingers tightened on her elbows. "Yes, it is. We have something. We have a ba-"

"We do not have a baby!" Hawkeye railed in a fraught whisper. "We have a thing no bigger than my fist that is neither here nor there; an ignorant lump with a stolen heartbeat." He gasped – appalled - but she continued nonetheless. "But out there, there are men, living and breathing; with histories, families and real, good lives. You are their commander, Sir. I won't allow you ever to forget the good you owe this world. This baby... it's not..." she breathed, feeling as though she had a knife poised at his breast. She drove it deep, where it would kill the germ of hope for their unborn child. Here on the battlefield, such things were not permissible. "It's not on our agenda."

He swallowed. Already, she could see the madness dying on his face. He was shedding off the skin of Roy Mustang and becoming the Colonel once more. Slowly, though, and with great pain.

"You're cruel."

She took his face in her hands and felt the muscles working in his jaw. How wretched they both were! "Yes," she said, accepting this as one would their birthname. "Yes."

They held each other's gaze, the storm raging in the heavens above them. At last, he bit his lip and nodded, swallowing thickly. His strong fingers took her by the nape of the neck and massaged her, snagging her hair. She hissed through her teeth and grabbed him back, full of vicious relief.

Boots sounded at the tent's entrance and Mustang's hand fell to his side where it lay like a shot dove. Hawkeye had a moment to fix herself before Havoc's ruddy face pushed in through the canvas. He was soaked, his sandy hair clinging to his face.

"Sirs," he panted, forgoing the salute. "Our rider's been spotted through a break in the rain. We think he's injured."

Mustang stood and stumbled to where his coat lay in the small porch, propping himself on Havoc's hip with one hand to lean out. "How far off?"

"About a third of a mile? Seems the animal's going nuts, stumbling all over the place."

Mustang rose, pulling his coat from its stand. "Can we send a horse to meet him?"

Havoc shook his head. "Vought's worried with the storm they might get lost and stumble onto the open fields, strike a mine. Our rider's returning the way he went, over that high ridge by the Sugar Loaf. Can't plant a mine in solid rock."

Mustang shrugged into his coat and grimaced at the heavy dampness of the material. The hem clung to the backs of his legs.

"Okay, show me to the General," Mustang clipped, then turned back to Hawkeye. "Lieutenant, I want you to find Fuery and have channels open and manned to Tolven North, East City and Hughes. Something's off here: that scout had three magazines and a packet of cigarettes in his kitbag. He was planning on taking it easy on his excursion. There's no way he'd ride back through this storm without good reason." He turned back to Havoc. "Let's hope that injured is all he is."

Hawkeye, who'd already gotten to her feet and slipped into her coat, saluted the men and followed them out of the tent.

The ground around the camp was a mess. The struts that the men had hastily prepared under Mustang's orders were already sinking into the soup of muck and churned up grass. Havoc slipped once, hitting his knees hard, and Mustang, by some miracle, managed to avoid falling sideways into a tent when a piece of plywood splintered under his boot. The break in the storm that Havoc mentioned was well and truly over, and both men struggled to save their eyes from the stinging lashes of wind and rain.

Eventually, practically clinging to each other for guidance, the pair reached Vought who stood tall against the storm, the tails of his great waxed coat snapping behind him. A small group of soldiers were standing about him, most with their hands to their eyes, struggling to see their rider in the distance.

"General, Sir!" Mustang called out over the tempest. Vought didn't hear him. His cool blue eyes kept staring into the deluge. Inching forward with Havoc at his back, Mustang took the General by the arm. "General Vought!"

Much to the alchemist's shock, instead of looking back, Vought threw his huge arm about Mustang's shoulders and drew him closer with a swift tug. Vought was at least a head taller than Mustang, and under the shadow of his sizeable bulk, the Colonel felt like a cadet again. The General, lowered his head to Mustang's, horse-like and purposeful.

"We've spotted our scout," he said, speaking straight into Mustang's ear. Mustang nodded, waiting for the General to continue. "Provided he doesn't drift into that field there, we should see him any second now. Looks rough."

Mustang nodded again, his eyes searching the haze of greys and browns for any sign of their scout. He remembered the second man they'd stationed on the Sugar Loaf. "Any word from Mills?"

Vought's blue eyes rolled in their sockets. "He opened a radio channel before the storm broke with an 'all clear.' Nothing since. I trust he's in no position to come back down that steep little strumpet while this is going on." He waved his hand out in demonstration, little explosions of water glancing off his arm as they hit. "Well, Mustang," he said, jostling his Colonel a little. "What do you think? Your face... You're troubled."

"I am," Mustang admitted. "I've asked for channels to Tolven North and East City." Mustang kept the 'Hughes card' in his own deck to keep things simple. "Something's been troubling me since the beginning, since Central... then the horse..."

Vought's keen eyes narrowed at that. He pulled two handkerchiefs from his pocket, handing one to Mustang. "Thank you," Mustang mumbled and cleared his eyes of rain and blown-in mud. "We've discussed the... unconventionality of this mission, Sir," Mustang said, straining to speak up into Vought's ear, avoiding the attention of the other soldiers. The larger man nodded once, strongly. Mustang leaned closer still. "The – the horse, Sir. I believe it was a message - an attempt to spook us."

"It was planted?"

"Without a doubt," said Mustang. "It had rope burns on its legs... broken ankles. It was tied there."

Vought sucked on his teeth, thinking.

"Sir," Mustang said, looking Vought straight in his eyes. Only as he said it now, was the true gravity of his theory revealing itself. "Aerugo... how did they know? How did they know I was -"

"Sirs!" A young Corporal shouted over his shoulder. He was pointing out into the storm. "We've spotted him. The horse is limping badly!"

Mustang felt Vought's arm tighten around him. There was possessiveness there in the curl of the long fingers around his upper arm. It seemed Vought had suspected the same, or had feared it somehow.

"Alright, well-spotted Corporal!" Vought called back. "A moment please."

The General placed his face directly in front of Mustang's. Those blue eyes, full of wit and knowledge mined right into the middle of the alchemist. Speaking with earnestness, the General may well have been whispering, his words were so intimate. "Somebody wants you."

Mustang said nothing.

"Sirs!" the Corporal called again. His voice was rich with fresh anxiety.

Something was building in the air around them. The rain that crashed into Mustang's side and back gained a new power. It's syrupy thickness stung his cheeks and neck. The Colonel's knees threatened to buckle as a freezing bolt of anxiety raced up his spine. He could feel it; a grand picture was beginning to expose itself to him, bit by bit, stirring painful anticipation. Pain bit him behind his left eye and he flinched. He needed to see it – see the picture; push it – push the circumstances and accelerate the great reveal. Meet it head on. Strike it before it struck them. What was it? What was it?

"Mustang?"

"Sirs!" Havoc shouted. "General Vought, Sir!"

The fingers on Mustang's right handed spasmed inside his soaking gloves. The need to strike, to blow open the whole mystery was becoming overwhelming. His entire body screamed for action, but his mind rejoined – _Calm! Calm and fortitude! _

Mind and body battling for his attention, the School Master Ishbal had taught him well what this meant.

"We need to take you out of play," Vought was speaking right at him, but his face was a blur of blue and grey. Yes, he was right. It was clear that here in Tolven was exactly where whoever _they_ were wanted him. "If you're what they expect, then I want you gone. If they want you here, then we don't."

Vought shoved Mustang to rally him, then took him by the jaw. This was the kind of commander he was, Mustang reckoned from his disconnected, assessing distance: paternal, responsible... pro-active.

"Let's get our scout then smuggle you out of here. Leave Central to me. I knew it, I knew it..." Vought continued speaking as he moved off towards the Corporal. He took the young soldier by the arm, asking to be guided forward to meet their scout and whatever terrible news he carried.

The scout was so close now: his dark blue uniform was clear in the rain. He bounced unsteadily in his saddle, arms bumping at his sides. The horse fussed and stumbled through the mud, tossing its great big head this way and that, clearly distressed. The scout was certainly injured, an experienced rider like that...

Heart pumping but mind yearning for calm. Palms sweating but voice steady. Ishbal taught him enough lessons in physiology. He had seen the human species in every possible arrangement, inside, outside, sometimes both all at once... he knew what the screeching of his nerves meant...

"Havoc," Mustang said. Then turned and shouted. "Havoc! Give me your lighter."

Havoc fumbled, distracted by Vought who was approaching the scout with his arms open wide to calm the horse.

"Now! Havoc!" Mustang shouted, then snatched the lighter from his Lieutenant.

"General!" Mustang barked, pulling hard on his left glove and slipping at every single step in the mud. His boots were sucked and swallowed, held and released by the filth that spread in every direction. Vought broke into a run towards the animal and Mustang yelled again, once more unheard. His right hand flicked open the lid of the lighter. If he could just do it in time, they might have a chance, but the light wasn't taking. He shook the lighter, he still had some time...

Those nerves, those wasps of thought and fear that swarmed in his head, they howled a message, a hard won lesson from the sands of Ishbal. They said...

Vought had reached the scout. He paused a moment and then brought his fist down hard into the palm of his other hand. He turned horrified eyes back to Mustang who still struggled to meet them in time. Vought shook his head and made to pull the dead rider from the horse.

_Attack is imminent._

"No!" Mustang screamed, his left hand flying out in a futile effort to limit the explosion. He'd been working to detonate the device before Vought reached it, packing oxygen around the booby-trapped rider to burn up the explosives within a neat parameter. To disperse it again would have taken five more seconds than he'd been afforded.

The force of the explosion flung Mustang back into the mud, knocking the wind from him. He gasped and took a mouthful of mud. Coughing and sucking in wet, saturated air, the Colonel struggled on his back like a drowning man. Havoc was on him in an instant, and he barely heard – over the ringing in his ears – his Lieutenant's call for caution.

Something popped in Mustang's head and suddenly the world was all too loud. The skies rent above them, great booms tearing across the purple-grey, broiling clouds. Soldiers raced past them, tumbling and slipping. Chaos reigned. Havoc bent his long body across Mustang, taking his commander by the face.

"Sir," he said, the blue of his eyes beautiful in this world of grey. "Sir, can you hear me?"

Mustang nodded and tried to sit up, but the muck held him tight. Only with the help of Havoc and another young soldier did they manage to free him.

"Vought," Mustang panted and stood with Havoc's help.

They found the General beside the broken body of the Corporal. Both the horse and the scout were nothing more than a steaming confusion of flesh and charred fabric. Silently, Mustang invoked the demons of his past – _help me, please let me be less human now, in this_. The ghost of Major Mustang took possession of the Colonel, sweeping out compassion, grief and sympathy. All the shutters came down and the sign on the door to his heart read: closed for business.

Nearing the General, Mustang tred slowly, careful to avoid the dozen or so fingers that had been blown clean from someone or other.

Vought lived.

Mustang kept Havoc and the others back with a shake of his head: _too late. Destroyed utterly._

The General groaned.

Mustang knelt beside him and took the General's destroyed right hand in his own. He crept closer, mindful of the yawning emptiness where Vought's middle should have been. With a glance, he saw the rain wash against the flesh clinging to the man's spine. The bomb had opened him up like a popped packet of sugar in a Central coffee house.

"Mustang?" Vought whispered. His eyes were absent too. Burned clean out of their sockets.

Mustang sank back on his heels and pressed his cheek to Vought's. The man coughed, but very little blood came up. Very little was left.

"Tell me," Mustang whispered. His grip tightened on the man's hand. "I'll make sure they know. I promise."

Vought swallowed and shook where he lay. Feebly, he pushed his cheek back against Mustang's. "I have..." he choked a little and his tongue pulsed behind his few remaining teeth. "A boy... my body was clean. Tell 'em my body was clean, and I love them so-"

He shuddered and quieted for a moment, before finishing in a whisper: s_o very, very much._

Mustang closed his eyes, committing the words to memory - that message of love that all soldiers kept in their hearts – and rose to his feet. He pulled off his coat and lay the wet fabric across the body of his former commander. Havoc repeated the gesture for the young Corporal.

Striding back the short distance to camp, Mustang could see commotion flying in the air like a flock of alighting crows. It swirled and dived, gathered and dispersed, in fits and bursts by the second.

Following a nod from Mustang, Havoc fired a round into the air to gather the attention of the men over the din of the storm.

"General Vought is dead," Mustang called out to the gathering soldiers, the sea of faces watching him with fear or resolve or outright panic. Shock ran amongst them in gasps and mutters of distress. He spotted Hawkeye's fair head pushing through the men toward him. "Our scout too. I have assumed command. Any grief you have, any fears, it is your duty to allay them until our mission is complete. You will follow my every order to the letter. Do you understand?"

"Sir!" the men chorused back.

"Any questions?"

"No sir!"

"We have reason to -" Mustang paused as Hawkeye reached his shoulder, her eyes demanding his immediate attention. "Report," he clipped to her, turning his back on the men.

Hawkeye pulled him a few steps away, beckoning Havoc and Breda forward as she went. She spoke to Mustang in a rush, her breath short. Her hands were covered in blood Mustang realised suddenly.

"Mills has returned from the Sugar Loaf, Sir. He spied an outfit of seventy or so men just South of here – armed."

Mustang glanced back at the men who awaited his word. "Where is he? Take me to him."

Hawkeye shook her head, gulping for air in the torrential rain. "He's dead. He took a bullet to the neck and bled out soon after he arrived. One of their scouts got him, he said. So he thought."

"Seventy?" Mustang asked, his forehead wrinkled deeply. "Seventy? That's what he saw?"

Mustang faced his men again, but Hawkeye spun him back, stepping up into his space, her chest against his. Her jaw was trembling and Mustang thought – shamefully – of their little baby nestled in the safety of her just-swelling tummy. He blinked himself free of such stupid, selfish thoughts.

She had him by the arm when she spoke next. "Seconds before he died... he said there was a break in the rain. The Sugar Loaf has the best view of this area -"

"And?" Mustang bit out.

"He said he spotted no less than five hundred men further South again. No more than an hour away. They are coming. Here. To us."

Mustang's veins hummed with a moment's giddiness. His stomach dropped into his boots and he nearly laughed in her face, right there in front of his men.

His eyes danced back and forth, back and forth, taking in the exhausted calm of her own solid gaze. A bolt of lightening whipped the sky above them and his decision struck him with the same ferocity.

"Fetch me the radio."

There was no way they could outfight or outrun five-hundred men, not in their condition and not under the wrath of the unrelenting storm. He placed his left hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

Strange, how they all noticed at once.

"Oh, Colonel," Breda moaned. "Your fingers."

* * *

_Central City, 3rd November 1915_

_He died well. I trusted you. The end of everything._

* * *

When they were playful, they shoved and jostled. Same as they had done when they were youths. Theirs was not a romantic engagement. They shirked romance and instead rejoiced in their private youthfulness, trying to recapture the spirits of the two beings who died in heat and sand. As Hawkeye backed against the kitchen table, threatening the sting of the whisk in her raised hand, Mustang would grab for her. In success (for she'd always let him) he'd hoist her by her full thighs onto the table and steal kisses and gropes while she complained, laughing throughout.

He'd carry her over one shoulder, pretending to drop her at the top of the stairs, and toss her onto the bed. It made her feel light, and it made him feel like a man – to do such things as were normal for other couples. She'd toss a pillow at him and he'd bat it away, his black eyes staring – amused and hungry. He'd lick his lips, stick a hand to his hip and sigh, flummoxed by her.

They stuck together in the cloying heat of city summers and trembled together in winter, steam rising from their heaving backs. Sometimes she'd cry and he'd wrap his legs and arms around her, heated impossibly by her great sobs against his collarbone and chin. Sometimes he'd go silent for hours, stuck in his little dark well of thought. Looking up from that dark place, he'd see her face looking down at him. Never smiling, never frowning. Just aware. Aware that he was there and that he was so terribly sad.

She sang when she brushed her hair. He'd laugh because she was absolutely tuneless. He'd remind her and she'd tell him without looking at him that it was his ears that required tuning, not her throat.

She sang...

She was such a terrible singer. He smiled, remembering how the key would change from one word to the next.

Remembering her.

Remembering his dead -

But she wasn't...

_Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye;_

_Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie._

_When the pie was opened, they all began to sing._

_Now wasn't that a dainty dish, to set before the King?_

Someone was whistling. It was a tune from every child's nursery days. By the time he was four, he was singing it on his Aunt's lap, clapping his hands along with the beat. He tried to open his eyes for maybe the fifth time that morning, and surprisingly, he found he could.

Through the watery haze of sleep, he found the source of the whistling. A cleaner was merrily swabbing the floor in front of Mustang's bed, his back turned. He watched the motions of the man, the way his broad shoulders moved under the thin, blue material of his uniform. Something in the size, the gentility and calm of the cleaner spoke to Mustang, somewhere deep in his mind.

"Excuse me, but do you have a son?"

Only after the cleaner's large shoulders froze and he turned to look at Mustang with his frightfully blue eyes, did the alchemist realise it was he himself who'd spoken; who'd asked the question. He hadn't even felt the thought forming in his mind. A shadow flew across his vision, like someone passing their hand across the viewfinder on a camera. He flinched as something gave his right hand a weak squeeze, but when he looked down, no-one was there. In this room, there were no windows, but the Colonel was sure it was raining.

"He died well."

"Colonel?" The cleaner asked, unsure, and propped his mop against the pale yellow wall. "What did you say just now?"

He'd spoken again apparently. His tongue felt strange in his own mouth. His thoughts swelled and retreated from the front of his mind like waves. There was something else he had to say.

"I promised."

He couldn't stop himself. There was an unsettling disconnect between his will for privacy and the actions of his own mouth. His ears had started ringing.

"I- I promised," he repeated. His chest ached as, with effort, he pulled in a deep, burning breath.

"Let me call someone," the cleaner said uncertainly.

"Wait... you can't go..." Mustang was saying, but the sensation remained that he wasn't quite behind the wheel here. He wondered if this was what hypnotism was like.

The cleaner smiled indulgently. "Let me just fetch someone." The large man reached for his mop and tugged it towards him.

A horse whinnied and there was a flash of light. White noise screeched.

"No!" Mustang screamed, throwing his left arm up. The cleaner fell back against the wall, struck by the ferocity of the Colonel's outburst.

Mustang, however, was no longer concerned with the cleaner.

"What?" he mumbled, seeing not his hand but a blank empty space; a shoulder swaddled in bandages. "When -?"

The cleaner shook his head and replaced the mop gently. His voice shook when he spoke. "Please, Sir. Let me call someone for you."

Mustang flinched at 'Sir' and for a sickening second, he was certain Havoc was just beside him, speaking to him in that wonderful accent that recalled open fields and good, honest cooking.

"My – my arm..." he mumbled, stupefied by that stump; by the absence there.

_Oh Colonel... your fingers..._

"I – I can't..."

_Sir, you have to see a medic!_

Gingerly, big wary eyes measuring the fraught man in the bed, the cleaner reached for the door handle.

_We don't have _time_, Lieutenant. Where's that radio?_

The ceiling above them strained and cracked.

"My head," Mustang said, or tried to, but the words jammed in his throat. His poor heart leapt when the ceiling above them cracked again. The cleaner was unconcerned. He should get away – the storm, the rain... why wasn't he reacting? The fool!

The ceiling groaned again and at last broke. Chunks fell to the floor, releasing a deluge of water. The sounds of plaster smashing against the tiles rumbled outward from the room like thunder.

"Colonel!"

Someone grabbed his face. He saw brown eyes flash blue, then brown, then blue, then brown. Fingers dug into his cheeks and the back of his head. He pried them off but they fought too, strong and capable.

_I won't leave you!_

_You will, Lieutenant! That is an order! Havoc! Havoc!_

"Get off! Someone get her off me!" Mustang was screaming. "For God's sake get her off me." His voice cracked and he found he was sobbing.

The water kept streaming from the broken ceiling, filling up the room faster than his men could lay the struts of wood. There was so much mud. It was impossible to see. Fingers floated on the oily surface of the filthy water.

_He's hallucinating..._

"Colonel Mustang!"

Mustang wiped the rain from his eyes with the back of his sleeve. He searched this grey world for a familiar face and found none.

"V-Vought's dead," he whispered.

_Move aside!_

Suddenly, there was Hughes, hovering before him – a ghost from Central. Was it raining in Central, he wondered.

"Hughes?" Mustang asked, again trying in vain to lift his left hand only to find it gone. He laughed. "Oh my -"

"Yes, Roy," Hughes' hand was doing something. What was it doing? "It's me."

_How do I turn this up? _

_Yes, his painkillers!_

Painkillers.

Ketamine.

"They want me." Mustang reached out, his weak fingers batting against Hughes' cheek. Hughes took his hand distractedly but he continued speaking to those grey faces. Why wasn't he listening?

"I am listening, Roy. I'm listening," said Hughes, giving his friend's hand a little squeeze. "That's it, take a deep breath, Roy. Shh. Calm down, please. Please."

_Will you hurry up? Can't you see he's distressed?_

The water was up to his chin now. He was going under. He tried to gasp for air, thrusting his mouth towards the ceiling but Hughes' strong hands held him back. He was always so much stronger than Mustang.

Hell! Hell! He was drowning.

Above him, Hawkeye swam unhindered, her blonde hair floating about her like a halo. She reached for him, speaking words he couldn't hear. But there was Hughes again, obscuring her and pushing Mustang back beneath the water. When she appeared again, she was screaming, air bubbling out from her nose and mouth. Desperate, raging against everything – the whole world, the Gods, the storms and tides, she struggled for him.

"I'm here," her voice whispered from somewhere deep inside himself; from that calm, unreachable place: the little box inside his heart. He felt the cool steel of her dog-tag press against his chest, the slight swell of her tummy, each little callous on each little finger trace patterns on his skin. His precious, precious thing. His secret, violent love. _Save me! _He called. And she answered:

_Always._

Then.

_They. Want. You._

"No!" Mustang swung his hand out. His fist connected with something. With what, he didn't know.

Like a bullet shattering a fish tank, the water broke from the room - vanished in an instant. Shouts of distress sounded from all around him, but he didn't care. His eyes stung and he felt half-blind. His ears rang and the world tilted on a dizzying axis. But he knew one thing.

He had to get away.

Mustang was on his feet. He was running as best he could, tripping forward on his weak, trecherous legs. How he'd managed it, he had no idea but when he looked back over his shoulder, Hughes and the others were just now spilling from the room.

"Roy!" his friend shouted, outraged and terrified. He gave chase, his long strides carrying him easily up the corridor.

Mustang continued jogging awkwardly away from them. An enormous orderly appeared to his right. Mustang's eyes darted to the truncheon in his hand. No ordinary orderly. It was a military facility after-all. There were enough crazed, sad soldiers to justify the brute force.

As the man lunged, Mustang feinted sideways and with a lazy sweep upwards with his elbow, caught his pursuer on the chin. As the orderly stumbled back, Mustang snatched the truncheon from him, almost losing his own balance.

Wasting no time, the Colonel tripped around the corner, glancing back to judge Hughes' approach. A soldier – perhaps visiting a colleague – grabbed Mustang from behind, snagging the bandages on his arm. The Colonel cried out and thrust himself backwards, his backside slamming into the man's middle. The soldier grabbed the truncheon to steady himself, but no sooner had he found purchase, than Mustang lowered his chin to the floor and charged forward. The soldier's back and head slammed into the wall and he slumped from Mustang's shoulders.

Hughes slid into view. His green eyes, bright with panic, took in the form of the crumpled soldier. Panting, Mustang backed against the opposite corner. He popped the handle of the baton in his teeth to try the door. It was locked.

"Roy! My God. What -?"

Mustang spat the truncheon back into his hand. His mouth was full of metal. Adrenalin had wound every muscle in his being to snapping and he was struggling to breath.

"I trusted you," Mustang whispered. Though he didn't fully know why he no longer _did_ trust Hughes.

His friend's face contorted with those words, an ugly blend of grief and indignation. "What could you possibly hope to accomplish by this? You should be in bed, where you're safe."

More hospital staff appeared at Hughes' back. Grey faces. Grey faces. No names. Mustang didn't know anyone but Hughes here, and that scared him. The animal inside him squirmed and gnashed its teeth. Blank faces, no names, no memory of anyone. No memory -

"Why do you want me?" Mustang asked.

"You're hurting yourself," Hughes said. "Look at what you've done to yourself, Roy! Your arm!" He took a step forward, arms outstretched as though pacifying a wild horse.

_A panicked horse. A dead rider. Vought's outstretched arms. The deafening explosion and the baby-faced Corporal's mangled corpse. No face left._

"You're not _listening_ to me," said Mustang. His back was now flush against the wall. "From the start... you've never listened to me... I just," his breath caught short and he gulped. "Need you to _listen_."

Hughes bit his lip, then spoke tightly. Mustang could tell there was a demon coiled there, just beneath the surface. Their knowledge of each other ran both ways, and it was clear Hughes was livid. "Listen to _what_, Roy? What have I missed? What light have you thrown on this mess that I haven't heard? Haven't I been there, waiting for your great revelation?"

It was a slap. Those cruel words coming from that kind man who was his friend. Mustang realised at that moment the horrible distance they'd put between themselves, each man travelling on his own path towards his goal. Hughes sought peace, Mustang – the truth. They were hopelessly irreconcilable. Hughes stepped forward, his mouth drawn in a tight, judging line.

"Huh?" he prompted, his face impatient – nasty even.

Mustang's eyes stung with tears. His jaw shook. He barely trusted himself to speak. "You didn't give me time. From the moment I woke up – you never once believed me. That they were alive."

Hughes had reached him by now. He took the truncheon from Mustang's shaking fingers and dropped it to the floor. He bent to look into his friend's eyes. He spoke very, very slowly.

Roy Mustang shook and was scared. He was so terribly alone.

"We recovered one of the radios, Roy. It came back from the labs when you were unconscious. It has a message. We think you couldn't find a signal and recorded it for later transmission. It's to Tolven North and it's you. You said it yourself: they're all dead. Every last one of them. You said it yourself, Roy."

Tears spilled from the Colonel's eyes. Disbelieving, he shook his head as Hughes took him by the shoulders. His head was pounding. "No," he moaned.

"I'm sorry. The doctors didn't want to distress you. They hoped you'd remember by yourself. You must have seen something. You said they were dead."

"No," he cried again. He pushed Hughes away who crowded him with concerned hands.

Shadows flew in front of Mustang's eyes again. He jumped, turning his head as though he were about to be struck.

His fingers tingled with the promise of alchemy. He could smell it in the air.

_Get her off me!_

"Roy?" Hughes asked. Some time must have passed because the taller man was closer now and sweating. "Please Roy. You're shaking."

_Someone please... please... just - _

"It's not true," Mustang whispered, sobbing. Strength had abandoned him. Grace had left him in the cold. A string of spit hung from his mouth as he cried deeply from the gut.

_Someone take her from me._

"It's true, Roy," Hughes said. "Please." He kneaded Mustang's shoulders with his longer fingers.

Mustang sunk under their weight, his back sliding against the wall. He was barely standing any longer. He wept hugely. "No..."

"Yes, Roy. I'm sorry. It's true. I'm sorry." Hughes took the smaller man's head in his hands. He was tender now. Now that he could be sympathetic, and _good_ and so very Hughes-like.

It made him sick, and Mustang had to swallow back the bile that bubbled up his throat. What had happened to them? When had he learned to loathe this man so greatly? He felt as though Hughes, in loving him so much, had snatched some light from his dark world – covetous and naïve. But why? Betrayal sat heavy in his stomach.

"Why?" he asked.

"We need to get you back to bed. Put you somewhere safe."

Mustang froze. Thunder rumbled inside the aching cavity of his head.

"What?" whispered Mustang. It was raining again.

"Come on, let's go."

"Somewhere... I..." Mustang murmured. Hughes' eyes lit up with fresh concern but soon they became as an apparition. He faded in the rain – dissolved into a nothing as Tolven rolled out in the Colonel's vision. Over sixty men now stood where his friend had once been. And her. His Riza – savage and wronged.

Hughes' voice: Roy... where are you? Speak to me.

"Put them..." the Colonel whispered. The bloody, burned stumps on his left hand pained him terribly but it didn't matter – his right hand was still in tact, and it rang with a brilliant charge of alchemy.

"Roy!" Hughes was there again, standing in front of Hawkeye.

"Hughes? Why are you-?"

The door behind Mustang was opened from the other side. The young nurse from the twelfth floor appeared, carrying a bottle of pills. It was the silly little girl who'd fetched Mustang the hot breakfast. The pills rattled inside the glass bottle.

"Oh Colonel!" she cried. "You shouldn't be out of bed!"

She took his arm as she spoke. Mustang spun to face her.

Her green eyes flashed through the rain.

White.

Noise.

OoO

Hughes stood opened mouthed, utterly unable to move or speak for a long, long time.

It had only taken a second, and even as his mind raced, he knew he couldn't have prevented it – Mustang was so quick. Had been since the academy. His reactions were perfect, and he never, ever missed.

As the girl touched him, Mustang's right hand shot out like a striking cobra and snatched the medal board from the front of Hughes' jacket. He'd pivoted so gracefully and swiftly that the young nurse never had a chance to save herself, and now...

...now the medal board stuck out from her neck, her artery severed and her blood shooting out like water from a fountain. Mustang was frozen – an iron statue, totally unthinking, his fingers still holding the end of the sharp plate and his face dripping with blood. His eyes were wide and blind, and it was clear that wherever his thoughts were, they were far from the girl he'd just driven to death.

Colour and motion bled back to the world and chaos exploded in the ward.

This was the end of everything.

* * *

Thanks guys. Please comment if you have the time^^


	9. For the Greater Good

_**Huge thanks to Kalirush for her genius, kindness and continuing support. Also mega thanks to disastergirl for the pep talks.**  
_

_**This is becoming a greater and greater struggle, so apologies for the wait.**_

* * *

_Central City, 7th July 1908_

_To pigs! Still a boy, _really. _Waiting with the sun._

* * *

Summer. Full, hot summer. The air in Central was so thick you could almost walk on it. Spindly tables spilled from noisy cafes and out onto the cobbled streets. Pedestrians laughed as they stepped over slumbering, sun-drunk cat. Drivers sped by on their way out of the city, off to enjoy the lakes and mountains of the West. Central in the summer was a joy. There was no other city like it in the world. Of that Maes was sure. He sat, long legs stretched before him so that he was almost horizontal in his wicker seat, as he watched his friend at the bar. Though something of a household name in the shadow of the war, the newly-promoted Lieutenant Colonel looked utterly dwarfed at the bar. To his right was a boisterous collection of very beautiful, very intimidating women, while to his left was a group of swollen, guffawing businessmen, straight from the office. Between them, Mustang's tight frame and neatly-squared, beige-suited shoulders looked incongruous at best. Still, he could see the barmaid chatting with him amiably over her shoulder as she prepared their bottle; an 1899 Chablis that Maes had been eyeing up since before he met Gracia. Mustang excelled at that sort of thing, so it was a welcome, if unexpected, surprise.

Toeing the thin leg of the table, the major leant back in his chair and pulled in a heady breath of summer living. It was full of barbecue, perfume and that special metallic tang common to all cities. He closed his eyes and thought of his darling up North with her parents. He thought about how her father would question her judgement in marrying a soldier. He thought about how her sisters would be fawning over pictures of them together – for he knew the eldest at least had taken a fancy to him. As for the boy, well, he would be surly about having to dress up for the wedding on Saturday. He'd fought the idea of being part of the bridal party almost as much as Mustang had resisted the role of best man. Maes chuckled.

"What are you so happy about?" Mustang asked warmly, from behind.

Hughes cracked an eye open and looked up into a face altogether so _happy_ he barely recognised it. Mustang's bright eyes danced, a light shining from within them. His teeth, a broad wash of perfect white, caught the sun like a mirror. Not for the first time in his life, Maes envied the man his obvious, effortless charm. His hair, for one, looked like it hadn't seen a comb all day.

"Me?" Hughes said at last, prizing the bottle of wine from Mustang's fingers. "Look at you! East City must be good for you."

Mustang sighed and snatched the bottle back. He threw himself into his seat, yelping at the last moment. During their academy days, the boys had invented the charming game of "poo needling". The rules were simple, with the end goal being one's foot up one's opponent's backside. Hughes was something of an expert.

"That was low," Mustang laughed, dropping Hughes's foot back to the ground. In a movement well-practised from his youth, Mustang spun the bottle opener into a cork just asking to be popped.

"Didn't enjoy it, even a little?" Hughes crossed the offending foot over his knee and played with the metal tip of his shoelace.

"That's between me and your foot," said Mustang, and plucked the cork from the top of the bottle with a satisfying _pop!_ "Sounds just like your granny farting, Hughes."

Hughes nodded. He watched with big, hungry eyes as Mustang poured for him. The wine fell into the glass like spilled diamonds and sluiced around the bottom. Alcohol streaked the sides in legs that promised a potent bottle. "My granny sure does fart a lot. There's a lot going on in an ass that big."

Mustang turned the bottle to pour for himself, but Hughes caught it to return the favour.

The alchemist smirked. "I wasn't talking about her... bottom."

Hughes paused mid-pour and cast a weary glare at Mustang. "You're insulting my grandmother now?"

Mustang shrugged and tapped the side of his glass: _more._

Hughes sucked on his teeth and filled the glass to the top. Mustang smiled all the while. "Great," said Hughes. "Roy Mustang has slept with my grandmother."

Taking a deeply exaggerated draught, Mustang swilled the wine around in his mouth before swallowing loudly. The ladies at the table next to him shot him a dirty look and he waved jovially in response. They rolled their eyes and went back to their conversation. "What can I say, Hughes? She's irresistible."

"And what about me? You know, I was voted the third most attractive man in the office this January."

"Sorry," Mustang said. He pouted sympathetically. "Not my type." He took another long sip, and Hughes could see the next line forming in his friend's mind like a rain cloud. "_Gracia_ on the other hand..."

Hughes kicked Mustang under the table - hard enough to make him yell out in surprise, spilling his wine. The women sighed as one and cast the soldiers another thunderous look.

Mustang shook his head. His long hair fell into his eyes and he had to sweep it back with fingers still wet from the wine. A few strands stuck straight upwards like frightened sentries.

"I'm sorry," he said, grinning.

"Mmm hmm."

Mustang laughed again, bigger this time and Hughes felt a strange tightening of his heart. How strange it was to see _this_ Mustang again. He felt as though he were in the company of a ghost: the spirit of a boy who died in Ishbal. Mustang, failing to notice Hughes's sudden quietude, continued.

"She's lovely. Almost as lovely as my darling, foolish and insufferable friend, Maes Hughes," he said, his voice shaking with laughter, and perhaps with a little booze. He raised his glass high above his head. Sunlight caught the rim and shot outwards like a knife, slicing across the alchemist's collarbone. Mustang's cheeks were reddened and kissed with freckles, and sitting there all in pale linen, he looked like a different man entirely from the one Hughes visited just a month ago. Perhaps the East really was agreeing with him. Hughes was about to say as much when Mustang stood suddenly, back straight and shoulders squared. He thrust his glass upward again, so that wine washed over the top and down his outstretched arm. "Here's to Maes Hughes and Gracia de Bri. May you rut merrily and create lots of horrible children for me to spend my hard earned money on!"

The businessmen and boisterous, brightly clothed women inside the bar clapped and cheered, each of them raising their own glasses to the soon-to-be-married Hughes. The women at the table next to them conferred darkly and stood, gathering their bags and finishing their drinks. A tall redhead clipped Mustang's shoulder as she left the table.

"Pig!" she cried, and left in a hurry.

Mustang turned and blinked after her. Hush consumed the busy cafe from the bar to the patio where the men were sitting. One of the women at the bar stepped forward and threw her arm into the air, the deep pink of her Rose wine swirling dangerously in her glass.

"To pigs!" she called, and her friends chorused loudly after her.

Mustang exploded with laughter, and so did Hughes. They both offered faux-bashful salutes to the women and businessmen alike before turning to each other, locking eyes like little boys who'd just caught their first bug.

"Are we pigs?" Mustang asked, scratching his neck. He glanced back at the bar.

"Hardly," Hughes said. He snaked one leg under the table and hooked the bottom of Mustang's seat.

"We're gentlemen."

"Mmm," agreed Hughes. He inched the chair to the right, then towards himself.

"More than gentlemen!" Mustang said brightly, toying with the stem of his glass.

Hughes nodded and gave the chair one tiny, silent tug.

Mustang wagged a finger. "We're officers!"

"You're an alchemist!"

Mustang paused, turned abruptly and pointed. Hughes was sure he had been caught in the act of relocating Mustang's chair. It seemed he was safe however as his friend simply prodded his finger in assent. "An alchemist! A state bloody alchemist. I have a silver watch!"

"You're practically... what... a national treasure."

"Came eighty-fourth in the Eastern Star's _East City's One Hundred Most Influential People," _Mustang said with mock pride. "You can't buy that kind of publicity. I've tried."

With that said, he sat. Spectacularly.

Missing his seat entirely, he landed hard on his rump then spilled backwards like a badly weighted ship.

His wine, miraculously, remained in-tact. Not a drop was spilled.

Most of the patrons laughed raucously, while those who'd had enough of the boys' antics simply ignored the foolishness, maintaining their chatter as though nothing had happened at all.

Hughes inched around the table. Placing his hands on his bent knees, he looked down at the grumpy, boozy-pink face below him. He smiled and waved. Mustang smiled back... a sort of mean thing; a smile that said -

Hughes was on the floor before he even realised what had happened. He was not quite as adept at holding onto his wine as Mustang was. The glass disappeared somewhere behind him, presumably into the flowerpots.

He lay spread-eagled beside Mustang, his face on the baking-hot pavement and his glasses pushed into an arrangement that looked a little like a turn-of-the-century sculpture.

Mustang winked at him, raised his head, and finished his wine in one go.

Both gents were respectably asked to leave the premises soon thereafter.

Drunk was perhaps too strong a word for the pair as they tripped down the cast iron stairs and out onto the street. They had been drunker, and a little schoolboy naughtiness couldn't quite compare to their academy days of sneaking into Central Zoo or running naked through the Botanical Gardens. Still, both major and colonel jostled one another and chuckled at nothing as they made their way onward to the next bar in the orange light of evening. Despite his joy at his friend's lightheartedness, Hughes couldn't help but sour a little at the thinness of him under his shirt, and the way he limped, just slightly – favouring his right leg. He knew of course, that unlike himself (usually comfortably ensconced behind his desk), Mustang was still rigourously active in East City. As he understood it, Mustang was _the_ go-to guy for any jobs senior officers didn't feel inclined to do. It was well known amongst the force that East City was home to many an officer who'd been sent out to pasture. This meant that the young alchemist and something-hero did everything from chasing down common thugs to supervising reconstruction after landslides. Hughes surmised that Mustang had so much colour in his cheeks because he was scarcely even in headquarters.

"You're thin," Hughes said, giving Mustang a companionable squeeze. The words had come unbidden. Hughes was glad that the booze was loosening his tongue.

Mustang pushed him off with a swing of his skinny hip. It clipped him just around mid-thigh, and Hughes chuckled, mildly pleased by his own tall stature.

"_You're _thin," Mustang said, pinching Hughes below the ribs. "_Now_... but wait until Gracia really gets going. They'll have to roll you into the office."

"I can't wait," Hughes sighed, winning a chuckle from his friend. He still wasn't satisfied, though. In Investigations, Hughes heard whispers all the time: talk of the missions the Flame Alchemist was commanding out in the _Wild East_. It wasn't too long ago that he and half of his men were laid up in hospital after being caught in a nasty gas explosion. Ladder-climbers like Mustang got eaten up by the system almost as a matter of tradition. If only people knew how far up Mustang's ladder went. He'd be obliterated in a second.

So if Hughes had a little morbid curiosity about the welfare of his friend, who could blame him?

As they turned a corner towards their next haunt, Hughes adjusted his grip on Mustang's shoulder. He feigned a stumble to the left, testing the side that seemed to be giving the alchemist trouble. Mustang hopped awkwardly, readying himself to catch Hughes. A strange 'ho!' noise sprang from his throat as his left knee buckled under the extra weight and he fell against Hughes's side. Both men tottered towards the wall for a soft crash-landing.

Hughes coughed an apology, watching his friend closely. Then, ever-so-lightly, he asked: "What was _that_?"

Mustang grimaced and massaged himself from thigh to shin, pushing his thumbs deep into the fabric of his trousers. He shook his head and smiled up at Hughes. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing. Just a thing."

"A thing," Hughes dead-panned. "Wonderful." He paused and took Mustang by the arm. "You should have said, you ninny. We could have stayed around the station if you had a … thing. You shouldn't be walking – drunk! - if your leg's giving you jip."

Perhaps it was the forced lightness of his tone that alerted Mustang to the act. Whatever it was, Mustang straightened immediately and looked Hughes straight in the eye. He placed his hands on his hips, resolute and visibly irked.

"_Really_?"

Hughes coughed again. "What?"

He was graced with a textbook version of Mustang's infamous, withering stare. He opened his palms and shrugged: "What do you expect?"

"Look, Hughes," Mustang said, though it was more of a sigh. "I've been looking forward to this weekend for months. Let's just... you know..." He shrugged at Hughes's expectant eyebrows. When Hughes remained silent, he rolled his eyes at having to continue. "You know... it was work... It was a stupid thing out in the country; should never have happened."

"Details?"

"No! I think I'd die before I told another soul. It really wasn't very heroic, I can tell you that much."

"Was it a cow?"

Laughing, Mustang shook his head. He kicked the ground at his feet, biting his lip in thought. Hughes watched the whole dance, familiar with every step. At last, Mustang looked at him. "Hughes, come on. Please. That – it's East City... miles away. This is Central – my home. I just want to have a good time. I want _you _to have a good time."

Hughes pushed Mustang on the shoulder without any real meaning. It felt nice just knowing he was here, and not way out East as he said. Hughes almost felt his friend was liable to disappear at any moment.

"I _am_ having a good time," admitted Hughes, then seeing Mustang's childish scowl: "I _am_! I just... worry. You know me."

Mustang turned and started walking, dragging Hughes behind him by the loop of his belt. "Oh, I _know._ There's nothing Maes Hughes likes more than worrying about me."

"_Say...!_" Hughes protested.

Mustang slung his arm up – with effort – over Hughes's broad shoulders. "Look, how about this: it's a full moon tonight. A blue moon. Don't you know that's when the world turns upside down and _I_ worry about _you._"

Placing his hand at the back of Mustang's neck, Hughes gave his hair a little tug. "Hmm..." he said with pantomime uncertainty.

"The moon, Hughes! The moon!" Mustang unfurled his cheekiest grin. The new spattering of freckles stretched across his high cheekbones. "I'm an alchemist," he said with triumph. "That's science, my friend."

Hughes moved his hand to pinch Mustang's cheek. "You've gone all freckly. Pigtails next?"

"I don't know... what does Gracia pref – ah!" he cried, as Hughes lashed out at him with one large foot. Mustang skipped away and spun, laughing.

People turned their heads to study Mustang – still a boy _really_. Passers-by smiled just looking at him – this _vision_ of exuberance. Smart men who should have known better held onto their girls a little tighter, and a dignified gentleman sat alone in a cafe looked at him with something like nostalgia. Hughes's heart constricted again. Here was his friend, together with him. The city – the whole _world – _was at their feet. The sun was burning away, sinking lazily into the Western mountains. On Saturday he would marry the most beautiful woman in Amestris, his precious, pure Gracia. Mustang would be beside him, guiding him and joking quietly into his ear as they awaited the bride. The two of them would be in full dress uniform. Handsome. Important. On their way up – the talk of the town.

This was the beginning of a whole new life for them: the beginning of everything.

Mustang woke with a start. Not knowing, at first, his precise location, he sat up quickly, pressing his back to the wall. He was covered in the foul smelling sweat of boozy slumber, and his heart hammered vigourously in his chest. What had he been dreaming about? Strange. One moment previous, the vanished dream had been his whole world, and now he couldn't remember a single detail. Perhaps the ghost of a smell – a sensation, or ambience.

Slowly, through the navy soup of deep night, his whereabouts returned to him. Faintly, the blue light of the city outside lined the small windows of his hotel room. There, that dark mass was surely the dresser and there, that thin sliver of light the brass handle of the bathroom door. The white ceiling seemed almost to glow now that his eyes were adjusting. In the corner, to his chagrin, he spotted the careless mess of his ransacked suitcase.

He sighed. His mind begged to know exactly what had happened in the lost hours preceding his return to the hotel, but his heavy eyes called for sleep. He doubted it was near morning, and desperately needed the rest. He couldn't remember the last time he chalked up more than five hours sleep in a night. With the way East was working him, it could be another five _years_ before he was able to boast a lie-in and morning with the papers in bed.

Decision made, Mustang turned the pillow roughly and slid back down under the sheets. He pushed his nose deep into the cool, starched cotton. It smelled of lavender and of a blonde girl in blue linen. He saw her strong fingers pegging white shirts and sheets to a washing line. It drooped heavily in the middle so that they shone like a smile in the sun. He sighed again. Bliss.

A noise broke the quiet. A strange noise. That is to say: not a hotel noise. Not a dripping tap, nor a straining pipe. Not the pressing of bodies in the gloom, not the soft tread of weary feet on thick carpet. Not the ubiquitous flushing of an old toilet, loud enough to penetrate the entire building. Not popping toasters, boiling kettles, nor arguing whispers.

This was a sob, and it came from somewhere within that very room. It was likely, he supposed, that he had imagined it. That it came right on the edge of his consciousness, as he was drifting off to sleep. He often dreamt of weeping.

It came again, and a struggle for control could be heard.

Mustang's eyes popped open. "Hello?"

There was a gasp followed by a desperately sad choking noise. The young alchemist well knew the futility of trying to battle the _waves _of sorrow when they came. The grief of a soldier was a tide that did not heed the word of man, least of all the soldier himself. Mustang sat up again, the thin sheet pooling about his stomach. His tired eyes scanned the smoky, blue-blackness of the room. It didn't take long for him to spot the pair of large, bare feet extending out past the edge of the bed.

"_Hughes?"_

Mustang cocked his head and strained to hear. Of course, the moment he spoke the man's name, the room went utterly quiet again. A suspicious quiet. The telling quiet of someone _trying_ to be quiet.

He swung his legs out and over the side of the bed, the muscles in his left calf pulling terribly.

"Hughes?" he whispered. "You're awake?"

There was a loud, pitiful gulp, then a shuddering breath. Mustang grimaced and waited. Waited and planned: how am I to play this? How am I do play this new and surprising thing?

When Hughes spoke, his voice was thick with tears.

"Go back to sleep, Roy."

And truly, he considered it. The strangeness of this waking dream was totally unknown to him. How Hughes had even ended up on the floor of his hotel room rather than his own bed was a puzzle in and of itself.

Hughes's request though, however much Mustang wished to honour it, was impossible. It was their story, holding onto each other like exhausted boxers, each keeping the other from falling down.

And so, there really was no-one else. The only open heart to moments such as this, was one wrapped in the blue of Amestris.

Mustang stood and swayed for a moment, a little drunk still and dizzy. The back of his head pounded tremendously as soon as he gained his feet. He grumbled and tottered forward, pulling the blankets from the bed with him.

He reached the edge of the bed and glanced down. Hughes lay curled at the foot of the bed like a sorry dog. He was still clothed, bar his jacket, which was thrown over him, barely covering his torso. His face was pressed into his large hands, and he shook. He shook so violently that Mustang could see it even through the room's murkiness.

"Hughes," he said quietly, distressed by the sight. Truly, he'd never seen such a thing. It was unpleasant in its strangeness, and he felt suddenly helpless. He whispered, "Hey" and kicked his friend's foot.

"Go back to bed, Roy," said Hughes, in an irritated, bothered tone. When there was no sign of movement from the other man he groaned loudly and shouted into his hands. "Goddamn it, go back to bed!"

Mustang jumped. There was the violence Mustang knew so well in himself. There was the fear and the shame of tears from a man of war. There was the acid bite of being caught crying by a comrade. But it shouldn't have been Hughes. _Never_ Hughes. It was deeply incongruous, and both men knew it.

Chancing a step forward to face his friend, Mustang called for Hughes again. There wasn't a second to react. Hughes yelled – _howled –_ and lashed out with his foot in what should have been an effort to shoo Mustang, to frighten him back to bed, and away from the awful show of weakness. It caught the alchemist low on the shin, however, and with an echoing howl, Mustang crashed to his knees.

"Fuck," Mustang choked in a breath and brought his open palm down hard on Hughes's thigh, "sake, Hughes!"

There was silence, a guilty little hiccup in the middle of Hughes's anguish. Now it was he who listened while Mustang recovered himself.

"Roy?" he asked, meek and worried. "Did I get you?"

Mustang bit his lip, quelling the pain, and laughed bitterly through his tight mouth. He spoke at last, exasperated. "Yes," he said. "You got me." Straightening up on his knees, he shuffled towards Hughes's head. He could see that Hughes had removed his hands by now and was watching him with wide, wet eyes. Mustang scowled at him. "You moron."

It should have been an easy insult, something to calm the mood, but to Mustang's horror, Hughes's eyes filled with tears again. Swiftly, he buried his face in his hands once more.

Feeling immensely lost, Mustang shuffled a little closer. He reached for Hughes but found his fingers stilled by a heavy, dreadful weight on his conscience. Never before had he seen the man in a state of such torment. Mustang wasn't stupid, and by now, he certainly wasn't naïve. He knew that everyone suffered torture from their own demons, and that even Hughes – light and cheerful – shouldered his own burdens. The difference now was this: he was witness. The fourth wall had come down, the trickster had shown his hand and the mask had come off.

"Oh," Mustang said, cursing his idiot, early-morning head. His silver tongue had fled and left him dumb. What could he say? What could he possibly say to... _this?_

"Please, Roy," the larger man sobbed. "It was... just a dream. I'm sorry I kicked you. I'm sorry. Please go back to bed."

Mustang whined in the back of his throat, still tempted by the welcoming ignorance of his bed. He would eventually drift off – or not – and Hughes would cry himself back into an uneasy slumber. In the morning then, both men could pretend the mid-night incident had never taken place. It was Hughes's way: to bury_ this_ man and maintain the other Hughes, the one who only wept when he was happy. The one who'd never killed. The one, Mustang thought grimly, who could marry Gracia and one day be a father.

Slowly, as if trying to catch a spider, he stood. He crept over Hughes's shaking form so that he stood at his back. Then, without making a noise, he sank to his knees again, then to lying. Lost for words that wouldn't be entertained anyway, he took a deep breath and placed his right hand on Hughes's arm. The man stiffened where he lay like a coiled cobra.

"Roy," he grumbled and sniffed. He took a painful sounding breath that rattled in his throat before he managed to swallow it down with another loud gulp. "Go back... to bed... please. I don't need you."

"The wedding?" asked Mustang. "Is it... is it the wedding? Hughes? Maes?"

"Go back to bed."

Mustang swallowed again, a cartoonish noise gurgling up from his throat. Hughes stank of wine, and it only occurred to Mustang then that there was every chance his friend was still drunk.

"I don't -" Mustang started feebly. He was terrible at this. Who in his life had he ever had to support as a friend? Him, the child of parents already rotten in the ground. Nobody. Not even Hawkeye. No-one abided it from him. They must have known he was useless at such ordinary things. "I can't do that."

"You fucking can."

Another huge sob shook Hughes from shoulders to stomach. He trembled on the rich carpet, weeping freely now. He growled fiercely into his hands, frustrated and angry. Scared too, Mustang imagined.

The room seemed to shrink as Mustang considered his next words. As soon as they came to him, he knew not only that they were true, but that he absolutely had to say them.

"It comes to me too," he said quietly. "Ishbal."

Hughes threw himself forward, curling even tighter in on himself, like some huge, shivering mollusc. He spat, bitterly, "But I'm not you, Roy!"

He cried unheeded, shaking his head and breathing wetly through a face hot with tears and snot. Well there it was. The truth of it.

Mustang adjusted himself, enormously nervous and wounded terribly. He could forgive the cruel words, though, because they were true. It hurt.

He shifted his hips a little closer and dropped his arm over Hughes's body to rest his hand on the man's shirtfront. Hughes sighed loudly and tried to shrug Mustang off. The smaller man held fast, then faster still as Hughes yelled incomprehensibly and threw an elbow back.

"Just..." a cough. "Leave me alone, Roy! Give me some -"

Mustang pulled hard on the other man's chest and levering him back, slipped his other arm under. He tugged and fought the writhing mass in his grasp until Hughes was flush against his chest. Hughes erupted; a fearsome thing, full of curses and violence and hateful, hateful words. Mustang grunted as flaying elbows found his chest and stomach. His jaw ached when Hughes's head clipped it with a loud crack. Neighbouring guests hammered on the walls for quiet, but still Hughes railed against the smaller man.

Each vile word struck Mustang like a knife, but the wounds only strengthened his resolved. _He isn't himself. This isn't Hughes. Not really._

"My Ishbal wasn't the same as yours, Roy," he said.

"My hands are clean. My hands are clean," he said.

"Gracia knows me. Gracia knows the real me," he said.

"I'm not like you. I don't _do_ this," he said.

And to each spiteful truth and untruth, Mustang simply said: "I know."

And soon too, he was crying quietly. He held fast and wept into Hughes's hair and neck: "Please, Hughes. Please." Though what he was pleading for, he didn't know. Maybe he too wished Hughes had the strength to live the lie he was trying to weave for himself. It was a beautiful thing, if naïve, to think that a wife could save him from his past. Drunk with grief, the bigger man turned and pressed his face into Mustang's neck. His foul words had turned to sorrow, and he spoke of Gracia like a dying thing. On the cusp of disappearing. He worried for her, and for himself: what if I should dream I'm there again, and kill her in her sleep, mistaking her for an Ishballan? What if, in my slumber, I betray the Hughes I've kept from her? What if she finds something, by chance, that tells her of my past?

Mustang nodded and soothed. He held that great big, shuddering body with all his might and willed away his fears. If he could eat Hughes's sins he would do so gladly. A few more would do him no harm.

Two men who'd barely even made a dent in their twenties wept together for their ruined youths. There was a dream, of course – a plan for the future – but night-time was the realm of the past, and hope was still far on the horizon, waiting with the sun.

Just before he nodded off, Hughes silent in his arms, Mustang thought of the blonde girl in blue linen again. Guiltily, he delighted in her complicity in his foul deeds. He needn't fear discovery. She knew all, and worshipped him even so. For that, and so much more, he worshipped her in return.

In the morning, while both men sat together on the bed devouring their breakfast, Hughes coughed and faced Mustang. He replaced his half-eaten toast on the saucer and said:

"So listen, I was really drunk last night."

Just as Mustang knew he would.

* * *

_Central City, 18th November 1915_

_Just by existing. For the greater good. One pale fist._

* * *

Through the cold shield of the two way mirror, Ed studied the man in front of him.

No, not the man. The 'subject'. Subject number eight. The third successful test case of Ed's array. This was his second session with the lab's psychologist, and the department were thrilled with the depth and precision of the results. Not only had the man been stripped of key memories, he was absolutely certain that he'd wound up in the research facility following an unsuccessful mission to Drachma. No matter that Number Eight had never served in the army. He just needed to _believe _he did.

Subject Six was Ed's first success, and while Bormann was largely contented with the achievement, Ed wasn't confident enough to use it on Mustang. The first five prisoners were dead now. Subjects One and Two had died the instant the array was activated. The gory results still lingered in the darkness behind Ed's closed eyelids, coming to him unbidden each and every night. With Subject Three, Ed had managed to snick back the man's memories right to desired point in history. All was well until in a moment of doubt, lasting no more than a second, Ed lost control of the array and the prisoner succumbed to the same fate as his predecessors. Subjects Four and Five could be called successes in the thinnest interpretation of the word. Number Four wound up in the same zombie state as Armstrong, while Number Five showed greater promise until after only two days when he was found dead in his cell: his bowels had ruptured. Somehow, the array had untaught him how to pass waste. It was a devastating lesson for Ed – how one memory could inform another, stretching like miles and miles of dominoes. He had had to revise the whole array after that. Five's body followed the others into the lab's incinerator.

After Number Five, Ed fell into a deep state of despair. He was going to kill Mustang, he thought. Bormann would grow impatient and force a premature procedure on the Colonel – then his body too would be melted to nothing inside the hungry furnace.

The young alchemist longed to speak with his commander. Since the incident at the hospital, Mustang had been removed to a small private wing in the military facility. There, he remained sedated and under guard. Hughes was still allowed to visit, but only under supervision. With red-rimmed eyes and a shaking voice, the Inspector had informed Ed that the administration were awaiting the death of the unfortunate nurse. At that point, Mustang would be transferred to the sole care of a state representative: one Mr Martin Bormann. The nurse remained in a coma and was not expected to recover.

Together in Hughes's house, man and boy had wept together while Gracia hurried Elysia up and away into her bedroom. Shame clung to Ed like a fever-sweat and he sat miserably for hours, his face pressed into his palms. A glance through his fingers saw Hughes biting one white knuckle, crying freely and silently as his eyes danced back and forth in frantic thought. How could any of them hope to survive this? Hughes: the man whose love outweighed his mercy (for by now, Hawkeye would have dealt the killing blow to Mustang, and they both knew it). Then Ed: the boy killer by horrid, cowardly means.

Subjects Six, Seven and Eight were successful. All three doubtless proved that the array served its purpose without error, but they were all humans whom Ed had robbed of their pasts. They were rotten, deplorable people, but that did little to ease the boy's conscience.

_It's all for Mustang_, he told himself. _It's for the greater good_, he reasoned. Constantly, his mind turned to the Colonel and the lies the man must have told himself in Ishbal, the thin justifications he must have found for the evils he committed. Ed knew now that he was no better. Perhaps no man ever could be. In the space of a month, his idealism - his faith in _good _had corroded. Badness, the boy supposed, would always win. Evil was like smoke: impossible to net, noxious and without form. And good? It was vulnerable. It was human. Good was Hawkeye whose powdered skull fed the weeds in Tolven. Good was Mustang, lying dumb and crippled in a silent, lonely ward. Good was Hughes, the loving, desperate coward. Good was Ed, the fool who thought that righteousness was enough. Good was weak, Ed concluded. Bad – it didn't even have to try very hard. Just by existing, evil vanquished.

All that could be hoped for was a kinder breed of sin; less collateral damage. _Yes_, Ed thought, t_hat's precisely what the young war-bound Mustang would have concluded_.

A draft washed across Ed's skin as the soundproofed door opened behind him. He knew without looking who had entered. Menace bled into the room like tear gas.

"You have terrible posture," Bormann said from behind him. Ed scowled at the man's ghostly reflection in the glass in front of him.

"What do you want?"

Laughing quietly to himself, Bormann slinked further into the small room. He stood to Ed's left, all straight back and squared shoulders. Similar to Mustang's tidy demeanour, Ed observed, but lacking the effortlessness the Colonel exuded.

"I have some good news," said Bormann, his reflection smiling at Ed.

Ed's stomach plummeted. His voice was solid, but his jaw was slack with nausea. "The nurse," said the boy.

"The nurse," Bormann repeated. "The breathing apparatus failed in the early hours of this morning. Strange. Just one of those things I suppose."

"So he's yours now," Ed whispered. "The Colonel."

The secretary tilted his head to the side and his neck gave a bright _pop!_ Finally, he turned and grinned down at Ed. "Come now, Edward. Colonel Mustang has and will always be property of Amestris. Just as you are, despite your protestations."

Glancing up with heavy eyes, Ed studied Number Eight again. The man was smiling dumbly at the pictures the psychologist was showing him – all of them doctored. It was Ed's idea: the false photographs. When a memory was removed, he'd learned, a vacuum remained. Without filling that vacuum, the 'dead space' was in danger of growing, like a black hole. It didn't matter what replaced it, really. People were so desperate to have _some_ sort of history, they would grab hold of anything. So it would be with Mustang. They already had his 'history' all worked out. It was like a Xerxian drama in scale: almost unbelievable. But Mustang would believe anything they told him: that's how the array worked. That's how Ed had tailored it to work.

"I want to see him," Ed said, strongr than he thought himself capable. "I want to see Mustang now. Immediately. I won't do another thing until-"

"Fine."

"What?" Ed spun in his seat and looked up at Bormann, who was staring almost lustfully at the subject on the other side of the glass.

"Do as you please, Edward. Your advancements with the array have been nothing short of stellar. There is virtually nothing you nor that wretched Hughes man can do to disrupt our plans. _Alea iacta est.."_

"The die is cast," Ed muttered miserably. A die forged in his mind and cast from his hand. "When can I see him?"

Bormann huffed and made a disgruntled face. "Whenever you like," he sneered. "I'm not your mother."

Ed was shocked. It was probably the first time Bormann had shown any hint of annoyance. It was difficult to ruffle Mustang's feathers, but by no means impossible – certainly not for an expert like Ed, but Bormann was another story. He was practically a robot, an automaton programmed only to serve the depraved wishes of the state. He noted the anomoly... What a good scientist he'd become.

Standing, Ed faced Bormann with a grim smile. "Don't get your knickers in a twist, Bormann. You've won, haven't you?"

Bormann's hard eyes narrowed for a moment as he considered Ed's question. He was bothered by something, that much was clear. Ed watched the man with care, his quick mind humming with a thousand questions as to what the matter could be. Before any answers could be divined, however, Bormann regained himself and smirked back at Ed.

"Give the Colonel my regards," he said.

Ed said nothing. Instead, he gathered up his portfolio, slipped into his jacket and pushed past Bormann whose steely gaze had returned to Number Eight.

OoO

Mustang was sleeping when Ed entered his room. They'd shaved his head again. Ed was still shocked by just how different the man looked. Even in slumber, with his long black lashes pressed against his pale skin and his gently rising chest, he looked tougher, _meaner. _He looked every inch a soldier: not the well-pressed officer he really was. Ed noted with a scowl that the hospital had prepped his arm for automail surgery. They'd already pruned back the arm and inserted clips to keep the flesh stimulated. The boy couldn't imagine it; Mustang with a metal arm. Cold, alloy fingers wrapped in pristine, white spark cloth. The Flame Alchemist was terrifying enough as it was, but by increments he was becoming even more deadly, even more the picture of Amestrian might.

Ed swallowed and moved closer to him. He took the older man's remaining hand in his own and squeezed it.

"Mustang," he said. "Mustang, it's me, Ed."

The man's eyelashes fluttered and his head dropped to the side. His breath hitched in his chest, and his strong fingers tightened around Ed's own steel hand. He failed to wake, however. Ed grumbled and reached up to adjust the sedatives flowing into Mustang's system.

The boy watched and waited for perhaps another twenty minutes before trying again. This time, Mustang's eyes flew open the second Ed squeezed his hand. His neck and spine cracked as he flung himself upwards to sitting, his chest heaving wildly. Wide, terrified eyes shot to Ed and for a dizzying few moments Ed saw no recognition in those inky, black pools. _Ah,_ he thought with dread, _this is what it will be like then, after the array._

Finally, Mustang breathed a deep sigh of relief and said: "Edward." And that one word, just his name, already had tears stinging hotly on the surface of Ed's eyes. Mustang's face changed and he no longer looked mean or tough or lost, but calm and _loving_. "It's good to see you." He squeezed Ed's hand. "God... it's good to see you."

As if that much had exhausted him completely, Mustang let his head fall back against the wall behind him, wincing as his stitches connected with the cold, hard surface. He had hours worth of sedatives in his system, but already Ed could see the clarity in the man's eyes: on first waking a spark, and now a burning intelligence. He patted Ed's hand twice.

"I think I know why you're here," he said darkly but without indulgence. It wasn't the first time the man had killed unfairly, and he didn't allow himself any selfish grief. "The girl is dead."

The harshness of the words shouldn't have shocked Ed, but they did. The boy couldn't blame Mustang, for the Colonel was only looking at the bigger picture. While the girl lived, there was still a barrier between him and Bormann, but now that she was gone, Mustang was certifiably a threat to society. It gave the military free reign to do anything within their power to neutralise him. Mustang was just about the deadliest weapon in Bradley's arsenal, and the death of one girl – no matter how tragic – was nothing compared to what lay before them.

"You know about the array," Ed said levelly.

Mustang nodded and smiled ruefully. "Bormann delighted in filling me in when I was first moved here." He cast his tired eyes to Ed then rolled them in black amusement. "As I'm sure you can imagine."

Ed laughed through his nose, but suddenly, fear gripped his heart. It was happening. It was happening, and they had lost! He shook his head, trying his best to catch hold of his emotion. "I hate him, Mustang."

Mustang's eyes hardened and his lips turned down in a terrible frown. He swung his arm up and took his young protégé by the shoulder. "I know, Ed. I'm sorry." Ed tossed his head angrily, his chest constricting with burning grief and guilt. Mustang pushed him by the shoulder and squeezed it, hard enough to bruise. "Show me it, Ed. Show me your array."

Ed gasped, realising for the first time that there was a reason why he'd taken his portfolio with him in the first place. It was so that Mustang could see the array. Even now, even when Ed was committing a truly despicable deed, he needed Mustang's approval. A fat tear fell over his lashes and splashed on the clean white sheet by Mustang's side. Ed moved to cuff it away, but Mustang beat him to it, smiling sadly. He swept his thumb across the boy's cheekbone, catching his jaw in his rough, warm palm.

"Edward," he said, looking deep, _deep_ into the boy's eyes. "I will never, ever tell you to do something that isn't right or good, not while I'm still myself. Trust me." He leant closer to the younger alchemist. "Show me the array."

Ed shook his head again violently, feeling very much the child in an adult's world. "Can't you see, Mustang? There is no good! Show me the good in any of this! Anywhere! Where is it?"

That gave the Flame Alchemist pause. He dropped his hand to his side and breathed noisily through his nose. Ed watched him, panting. He wanted Mustang to show him 'good'. He really did. But he knew by the distant, peaceful look in the man's eyes that Mustang's _good_ wasn't _good enough_ for Ed. He was old enough by now to know that virtue didn't come for free – a sacrifice was always required.

"Show me the array, Edward," Mustang repeated calmly.

With trembling fingers, Ed reached into his portfolio and produced his completed array. It was watermarked for safety by a large red 'X', but the design was still visible – beautiful in its intricacy.

Mustang studied it with a hungry and strangely euphoric expression. Unshed tears gleamed like flashbulbs in the corner of his dark eyes as they scanned the pattern. He was an alchemist after all, prone to exquisite arrays, no matter how dark. Even the most gory classical paintings were works of art.

Still scrutinising the work, he began speaking in a flat, detached voice. "Have you ever heard of Ada Eichmann, Ed?"

Edward shuffled in his seat and answered in the negative. In Mustang's tone and in the set of his shoulders, Edward saw a dawning truth. Mustang had first entreated Hughes to save him, and now it would be Ed.

Mustang opened his fingers for a pen. Ed fumbled in his jacket for one before placing it in his commander's outstretched hand. With deft strokes, Mustang began making alterations to the array, his eyes never leaving the page as he spoke.

"He was the scientist Amestris tasked with finding the best way of liquidising all opposing Aerugonian forces during the Tennet War. He was a skilled, highly efficient man and set about his job with vigour. He never once thought to question whether anything he was doing was morally correct. It never occurred to him – he was only interested in the science of it. He never had to consider the bigger picture. He was so convinced that what he was doing was necessary. Was right, even."

Shame blossomed in Ed's chest and it took him a moment to realise that Mustang wasn't talking about him at all. "You're worried. You're scared of what you might do without them... us?"

The Colonel's eyes rose to the ceiling. He closed them, cocking his head to the side in memory. "You have no idea..."

Both men fell quiet, both thinking the same thing. There could be no doubt now, that Mustang's power would be turned against Aerugo.

Eventually, the Colonel opened his eyes again, freshly bright with new resolve. "I often thought which of us would be the first to go: myself or the lieutenant. Now I have my answer."

He handed the array back to Ed.

The instant Ed's eyes fell on the adjustments, he clenched them shut, stricken with distress by the unspoken request.

"I can't do this."

"You can," Mustang said. "You must, Ed."

Ed flung the document down on the floor. "You're asking me to murder you and I won't do it!"

Mustang sucked in a breath and continued in his flat, _accepting_ tone. "This array Ed... the life Bormann wants for me, it's as good as death – worse."

Ed leapt to his feet, sending the flimsy chair skidding back and banging into the wall. "This is what you call 'good', Mustang? You said you would never tell me to do anything wrong! Do you have any idea what this array will do to you? We'll be scrubbing you off the damn wall!"

Images of Numbers One, Two and Three flashed through Ed's mind. He couldn't. He couldn't! Mustang couldn't die that way – it was impossible.

Mustang, swiftly losing strength, sighed and rubbed his eyes with the back of his thin, pale arm. "Edward... sit down..."

"You're all as bad as each other," Ed continued, hot, frightening energy flaring in his breast. "You'd have me kill the whole world just to suit yourselves!"

"Edward, please..."

Ed was livid now. He bore down on his commanding officer with a fury stoked by weeks of anguish and fear and stress and sin.

"Why? Why me? Every goddamn week since I've known you, you've called me a kid; you've _laughed_ at my height... at my age! You've shielded me with lie after lie, hiding truths from me since as far as I can remember. Why now? You selfi-"

He didn't get to finish. Quick as lightning, Mustang shot from the bed and thrust Ed against the wall by the throat. Equipment toppled behind him and wires tore themselves free from his skin. His chest was flush against Ed's, crushing him against the wall and stopping his breath short in his lungs. But more crushing still, was the weight of those eyes filled with fear, _flooded_ with fear. Mustang wasn't scared of dying at all. He was terrified of living.

"You are wrong," he hissed, each word leaking out of him, sibilant and cold. "This is the first selfless thing I've done in my entire life."

"Colonel," Ed choked, squirming in the unrelenting grasp of the sick man's hand. How he managed it – Ed didn't know. This wasn't the raving, drugged man who had killed the nurse. This was Mustang, all right. This was the Flame Alchemist, harried and fighting from the very edge of reason.

The hand around Ed's throat slackened. In the next beat, Mustang slumped against his subordinate, utterly spent. He pushed his cool, damp cheek against Ed's cheek, while his hand groped desperately in the boy's hair. His voice was thick with emotion when he gathered himself enough to talk.

"Please understand, Edward. If you don't end this, you will regret it for the rest of your life. I am...," Mustang paused, struggling for breath – for words – for the strength to make his distraught entreaty.

Ed sobbed and in a fit of childish need, grappled with his commander. He pulled the man closer to him, at once supporting him and seeking his support. He could feel the older man's heart beat frantically through the thin material of his hospital gown. His wet cheek slid against Mustang's. "Please... I can't... I can't..."

"Edward... Edward..."

Mustang was upset – perhaps weeping even, Ed could hear from his voice. Still he held him close – closer. He didn't want to see that fear. He didn't want to be shown that deep, devastating sorrow. He was scared of Mustang's grief because he _knew_ it was deserved. He _knew_ Mustang was right, but he couldn't do what was asked of him. Who would he follow, if Mustang vanished from the world? How could he forge on if he left this man behind? He _couldn't_.

Mustang knocked his head against Ed's. "Edward, you are my only hope. If it isn't you, then it's nobody."

Ed coughed and shook the man. He reared back then forced his wet, miserable, wretched face against the man's thin chest. "No," he moaned.

The Colonel's voice was eerily quiet when he next spoke. So quiet that Ed barely heard him at all. Frantic footsteps were echoing up the corridor outside. This was it. They were out of time.

Mustang whispered to him urgently. "Don't let me be that man again, Edward. Save me."

Ed pushed the Colonel back, but exhausted, the man had bowed his head and was swaying in Ed's grasp. He shook his head tiredly. "Save me, Ed."

In a confusion of movement and blinded by his tears, Ed was pried free of the Colonel by strong, gloved hands. "I can't," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm not her. I'm not her. I can't. I'm not that strong," Ed pleaded, on and on, but the Colonel merely shook his head, over and over. Broken.

The orderlies put him back to bed, fixing the equipment once more.

"Please forgive me, Colonel," Ed begged, but Mustang just continued to shake his head sadly. Lost. Hopelessly lost.

The orderlies took Ed by the arms and began dragging him back and away from his dear, noble Colonel. Mustang didn't look at him again, and before Ed had even reached the door, the sedatives had taken effect on the man.

The last thing Ed saw as the door swung shut behind him was Mustang's unconscious form and the clump of bright blond hair clutched in one pale fist.

* * *

Thanks folks! Please review if you have the time... I can't tell you how much of a struggle this has become T_T


	10. Tolven's Womb

_**Massive thanks to Kalirush who had to wade through about another 3,000 words than you see here! She is amazing.**_

_**Also to Antigone Rex and Disaster Girl for being my moan-deflectors.**_

_Once again, your support is not only appreciated but outright required at this stage. This is exhausting!_

_(_pansymoomalfoy32 - I tried to respond to your review, but your PM is disabled. Thank you!)

_Peace x_

* * *

_Tolven, 14th October 1915_

_To become. Focus! Tolven's womb._

The storm didn't ease as the nightmare stretched on. Silvery sheets of rain swept across the Tolven fields like schools of hungry fish. The earth turned to soup beneath the soldiers' feet and barely a word could be heard over the fearsome thundering of the purple-black clouds. The tents – erected in a hurry – bent under the weight of the rainwater. A few had collapsed already, their guidelines and pins useless in the muck.

Communications were down. They were unalterably down and would be for the foreseeable future. Mustang almost put one radio entirely out of commission as the urge to throw it against the nearest rock threatened to overwhelm him. Fuery said it could be days before the wiring dried out satisfactorily. Days! They scarcely had hours.

Then the bridges North of them went: broken or flooded by the Castella River. The possibility of escape vanished together with all that brick and wood; torn away from them like Tenneson, Mills, Vought and young Corporal Thornton.

They did the best they could with the four bodies. Some volunteers moved them away from the others and Mustang got to work fast. Flesh crackled in the rain as fire and water fought to devour their fallen comrades. The Colonel gagged on the bitter steam as he struggled to keep the fire going through the downpour. Staring at the blackening flesh, his mind raced.

More than five hundred men. Almost _six_ hundred against his meagre sixty. With communications down until the worst of the storm passed, there was no way to get more troops into Tolven South. Fear played on him – caught him off guard, turned his limbs to lead and chilled his gut. Even in Ishbal, he hadn't been so _afraid. _So responsible and so helpless and so ignorant.

Vought's men were here, some of them still shivering in the wake of plucking exploded fingers from the mud. His team: Fuery and Falman, Breda and Havoc were here – ready and willing to die for him.

Riza was here. And their baby too; warm and oblivious inside of her. Girl or boy, it rested there; it's only job to grow and to be nurtured. All that little miracle needed in order to _become _was safety, but safety was as close to them as the moon.

"Sir," Hawkeye shouted behind him, trying to make herself heard over the din of rain.

"Lieutenant," he answered and turned slowly to face her. His gaze wandered to her belly but at the cautious narrowing of her eyes, he snapped it back up again. "Report."

"Sir, Fox is back from the Southern fringe. He says he's spotted the first unit of Aerugonians. They've inserted themselves into the gully at the far end of the plane. Looks like they want to block it off as a possible means of escape."

Mustang pushed his fringe back from his forehead and blinked the rain from his eyes. He closed the space between them until their soaking uniforms touched. "Which means the others hope to flush us down there from the North. They'll come around the Sugar Loaf from the West and push us towards the gully."

Hawkeye nodded and droplets fell from the ends of her hair. "Or vice versa."

"Or vice versa," Mustang agreed. He cast an eye over the troops who were fighting to pull ruined tents down. "How are the men?" he asked.

Hawkeye swivelled where she stood and whistled over her shoulder. Somewhere through the rain, Breda's ruddy face looked up at the Lieutenant's signal. "Breda!" she called. "Mustang!" she added. It was all she needed to say. The redhead battled through the ravenous mud that sucked at his boots with every step. He nearly lost one and had to pivot back to secure it again.

Finally, with some effort, he reached them. "Sir?" he asked, squinting through the rain.

Mustang took his arm and shouted into his ear. "What's the mood on the ground?"

Breda listened intently then threw his head towards the camp. "Pretty solid, sir." He crossed his arms in front of his large chest. "I know we were worried about them, but they seem to be pretty confident, considering. They're good, Sir. Good people." He smiled wanly and jutted his chin at Mustang's hurriedly bandaged hand. "I don't think they want to look like weaklings in front of a commander who gets half his hand blown off and doesn't take so much as an aspirin."

"Ha!" Mustang barked. "Aspirin thins the blood, Heymans. Remind me to sign you up to the field medicine refresher when we get back."

The redhead winked at his commander before casting his eyes across the rushing soldiers. "Still no sign of your missing fingers, though. Some kid's probably wearing them like a lucky charm."

Mustang laughed again. God, how he loved Breda. "They're not _that_ lucky."

"Just not good for you, Sir," Breda said, tilting his head as he focussed again on Mustang. "Sort of like morphine, huh?"

Mustang's smile fell and his eyes darted to Hawkeye.

Breda continued, watchful for any hurt despite his joking. "Above all that 'pain-killing' nonsense, are you?"

The Colonel grimaced. He'd quite forgotten about his hand until Breda brought it up. Funny what stress can do to the body. He flexed his remaining fingers and winced at the pain that sliced through him from his shoulder to his thumb. His fingers were long gone so there was no sense grieving them. He'd probably burnt them together with Vought. "I need a clear head."

"You _need_ a working radio," Breda chuckled darkly. "Any news from Fuery?"

Hawkeye shook her head. "Everything's waterlogged and the signal was weak before now in any case." She looked to Mustang, speaking under the shelter of her hand. "Sir, you should consider having a word with him. He's being very hard on himself."

The Colonel dropped his chin against his chest and shook his head slowly. Of all his people, he didn't need his communications guy having a crisis of confidence now. "Okay," he said. "Fetch me Fuery and the others and meet me in the supplies tent. I want those other scouts too: Fox and eh..."

"Carstens."

"Right. Let's get a picture together. The sooner we know where we're at, the sooner I can act."

Hawkeye's eyes, the only warmth in this hellish swathe of blue and grey rested on him. Yes there was warmth, but there was something else too. She was testing him. She was telling him: I'm strong. She wore her strength in her eyes, sure as an ensign. The strength to fall and die, if necessary.

He didn't want her strength. He wanted her to be weak. He wanted her out of there.

Hawkeye could smell disaster in the air as well as he could. A stranded infantry with one alchemist; the radios out; the storm crushing them; even a possible traitor in the ranks. For there was the dead horse, the booby-trapped body of the first scout-Tenneson, the mass of Aerugonians who _happened _to be there, right where they were. Yes - disaster loomed over them like an operatic villain. Like the clouds and relentless rain.

He grabbed Hawkeye just as she was about to move off. Breda watched them, careful of his commander's growing unease.

"No," was all Mustang said to her. He denied her professionalism. He spat on her strength. He wanted to throw her into the dry goods crate and bury it in the middle of the planet.

"I'll fetch the others," she said, misunderstanding – or pretending to, rather.

Mustang dug his fingers into her arm until her uniform puckered and she winced. His eyes burned. "No," he repeated.

Hawkeye said nothing, nor did Breda. For a long time, nobody moved and nobody spoke. The rain beat of their faces and backs.

Hawkeye swallowed and held his eye, disbelief and _incredulity_ written in the tight line of her lips. "You forget yourself, Sir," she said eventually.

He shook her once, his fingers like talons and finally, he released her. Angry. "Five minutes," Mustang clipped, his face sour. Breda dropped his head to stare at the bubbling mess of mud, torn grass and fleeing worms.

"Sir," Hawkeye confirmed, perhaps a little pettily. That one little word struck him like a fist. Damn her! Damn her professionalism! She would exceed the expectations of her position just to prove something- prove that the baby changed nothing; made her no less of a servant to him. No less of a soldier.

Mustang stared after her until she disappeared into the thick of the downpour. When she was gone at last, he dropped his head back to stare at the punishing clouds above. Raindrops stung his cheeks and eyes but he stared on regardless.

_"The – the horse, Sir. I believe it was a message - an attempt to spook us."_That's what he had said to Vought. They were well and truly spooked now. But who- _who_ was the rat amongst this sad harvest of men?

"Sir," Breda said, approaching a little cautiously.

_"Somebody wants you." _

"We should get to the tent, Sir."

Vought had been suspicious too- had wanted Mustang to get out of there. The General's sightless eyes still lingered in the Colonel's mind.

Mustang tore his gaze from the clouds as his sleeve was tugged roughly. "Breda," he said quietly. He felt dizzy. Damn that scout and damn that explosion. Damn his hand. Damn his weak, human body. And damn – damn! - Riza Hawkeye for following him to hellish places.

"Let's go, sir. They'll be there by now."

"Yes," he answered after a moment. "Yes, of course."

Getting to the tent was much easier said than done. Both Mustang and Breda ended up in the slime more than once. They resorted to leaning on one another like tired drunks until they reached the relatively solid ground by the munitions hold.

The rest of the team were already there, together with the two additional scouts – Fox and Carstens. They'd been sent South and West to the Sugar Loaf respectively. Both boys held steaming cups of coffee in wetly wrinkled fingers. They managed to salute, barely.

"Men," Mustang greeted them as he slipped inside, Breda at his heels. He accepted a cup of coffee from Fuery and captured the young man by the shoulder before he could slink off again. He pulled the Sergeant back and against his side, squeezing his shoulder as he did so. "I don't want _you_ going anywhere, Sergeant. God knows I need someone with a semblance of balance to keep me upright."

Fuery shot worried eyes to Mustang and spotting the man's tired smile, nodded and accepted the weight on his own small frame. As best he could with his remaining fingers, Mustang gave the hair at his subordinate's neck a little tug.

"Don't worry about the radios for now," he said quietly. "This storm caught everyone with their trousers down."

Guilty and coy, Fuery ducked his head. "Sir," he whispered.

"Well, men," Mustang spoke to the scouts. "Where are we?" He tilted his jaw at the smaller of the two. "Fox. How's the South looking?"

A blond boy of no more than twenty, Fox swallowed his coffee loudly and inched forward on his seat. "The first unit – the men Mills spotted before he..." Fox trailed off, his striking grey eyes dimming with faraway thoughts of spurting arteries and grabbing hands. He shook his head a few times and coughed awkwardly.

"How many would you say?" Mustang asked, allowing the boy his jitters and letting Fuery help him into a chair.

Havoc tossed a towel at the Sergeant and he dropped it across Mustang's shoulders. Its comfort, however small, elicited a thankful moan from the alchemist.

Fox swallowed again and fumbled with his coffee mug when it nearly slipped from his shaking fingers. "About seventy, Sir. They looked well armed. They had canopies set into the trees. Looked dry, Sir. Doubt their weapons will give them jip like ours."

"Any heavy artillery?" Mustang asked, towelling his hair awkwardly with his injured left hand. What a pleasure to have just damp hair and a dry face!

"No Sir. None that I could see."

He drank deeply from his coffee and spoke through swallowing. "Long range?"

"No Sir."

Mustang nodded and smiled at the Corporal. "Okay, Fox. Nice work. What about the West and our old friend the Sugar Loaf, Carstens?"

A bulky youth, Carstens was one of a few men who had jumped at the chance to work with the legendary Flame Alchemist and war hero. He'd mentioned having family in the Tolven area. The blast that had proven such a catalyst hit a little too close to home for the Corporal. His voice was soft and high for a man of his size, and he spoke with a thick southern accent.

"On all three counts there were five hundred men, Sir. About six miles off, south of the mountain."

Mustang clasped his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. He felt the eyes of the room on him but he easily set aside their scrutiny. He placed himself far above the tent and imagined the vast Tolven fields stretched out before him like a child's railway set. There was the Sugar Loaf, crouching squat and grey. Then there was the horseshoe ridge that curved South and East of it, and on top of the ridge the planes of Aerugonian Tolven. The _Grave dei Settentrionali_ gully divided the horseshoe ridge neatly in two and that's where Fox spotted the seventy or so men first reported by poor Corporal Mills.

In such a narrow little space, Mustang could have eliminated them in a second but for the storm and its crazed, unpredictable pressure. A gamble was impossible. A strong enough shift in pressure could push his flames back on themselves, devouring their small camp, Flame Alchemist and all.

Seventy men in the gully and a further five hundred headed north along the Sugar Loaf's Western flank; waterlogged radios and old guns malfunctioning in the heat and wet. God bless his Lieutenant and her precautions: at least he had enough gloves with him.

So there they were, in the pinchers of the Tolven horseshoe and lidded in by a storm with impossibly bad timing. East. That's all they had. They had to go East, and soon.

Mustang opened his eyes, meeting Hawkeye's immediately. He nodded- ever so slightly to her, and she returned the miniscule gesture in kind. Breda smiled to himself. They'd seemingly made some kind of peace with each other in that brief, silent exchange.

"We go East," Mustang said. His men mumbled their assent and breathed deeply, readying themselves. "Leave the tents. Leave everything. If we go now, we might be able to strike North and reach Tolven East. If not, we can climb the Eastern ridge and gain some advantage at least."

"Sir," chorused his men, including Carstens. Fox's wide eyes shot to his fellow scout then down, uncertain.

"Fox," Mustang clipped, looking at the young man expectantly. "You have something to say?"

The boy's chin snapped up and he faced his commander with a frightened, slack-faced expression. "No – no, Sir."

"East then, Sir?" Carstens asked, ready to stand.

Mustang sighed and drank from his tin cup again. His eyes stayed fixed on Fox. He tried to remember himself. He had been a nervous soldier once too; eager to please and terribly conscious of sounding ignorant or naïve.

"We don't have time, Corporal. Please. Say what's on your mind."

"Well, sir...," Fox began, shrinking under the attention of the amassed men. Hawkeye placed herself between the two scouts and gave the smaller man's shoulder a tight squeeze. He looked up at her. Like a drowning man at sea who finds himself washed against a rock and so clings to it, he spoke to her and her alone. "We didn't send no-one East. No-one at all, and well the Colonel," he issued a little gasp and turned to Mustang. He shifted in his seat. "Sorry, Sir... _we_ don't know if there's more troops there or anything."

Only the assault of rain on tarpaulin could be heard. Fox swallowed and continued, shifting in his seat to better address Hawkeye once more. "We don't know if there's another unit East. It makes sense – I think – that they'd send another East. Why would they only attack on two fronts if they've got three."

Hawkeye met Mustang's eye, and cocked her head.

Mustang puffed out a breath and closed his eyes again. He saw a horse dead on train tracks and flinched in his seat. _Focus!_ He told himself. The sounds of his men shuffling around him started to break through his fragile meditation. He wrestled for calm. Never in his life had he been so _afraid_. Everything from the very beginning stank of wrongness... of _evil_ even. He'd been outnumbered before and he'd certainly been outgunned before, but he'd never felt quite so-

"Vulnerable," he said quietly.

West: Sugar Loaf, five hundred men. North: retreat, washed out. Fashion a bridge? Drowned soldiers? No. Water too high. Flash flooding unpredictable. South: The Grave of the Northerners. Seventy men for certain, almost man for man to them. Crushed by boulders from above? Gunfire through the top of his men's skulls as they suffered death like rain. But a gully. Beat the men and take the gully. East: unknown. Unknown.

"Unknown," he whispered. He dropped his thumb East, willing it to divine _something. _Unsurprisingly, the universe didn't answer. But...

"But," said Mustang, aloud.

But silence was better than five hundred men. Better than broken bridges and troops swept downstream for miles, dragged under by their kitbags. Better than boys crushed by loosened boulders, dropped from above.

"We go East," Mustang said, loudly now. He opened his eyes and fixed them on Fox who was soldier enough to look wounded that his advice had not been heeded. "I'm sorry, Corporal. It's our best chance."

Fox shivered and swallowed. He tried a 'sir' but failed. He managed a weak: "Yes."

Mustang stood sharply – too sharply. He skipped to the side, dropping his cup, and found himself caught by Falman on one side and Fuery on the other. His blown knuckles had been weeping blood since the explosion and though the medic had sutured them roughly, he was still in trouble without proper attention.

"Shit," he muttered. He glanced up at the scouts. "Do me a favour and keep that to yourselves, yes?"

Both men assented with shy smiles. Hawkeye rolled her eyes and sent Fuery for the medic.

"We don't have time, Hawkeye," Mustang said, perhaps a little petulantly. His headache was blossoming again between his temples. Black spots danced behind his right eye.

Hawkeye grabbed her coat and shook it out. "A stitch in time, Sir," she said, slipping her arms into the heavy, wet sleeves.

Mustang thanked Falman quietly and accepted a fresh cup of coffee from Breda. He narrowed his eyes at his Lieutenant. "You think you're cute when you're being literal, huh?"

Hawkeye planted a hand on each hip and surveyed her commander. She looked ready to say something then reconsidered. "Falman, don't let him move until the medic sees to his hand properly."

"Eh-"

"Industrial glue isn't 'properly', Warrant Officer. Please make that clear to the Colonel if he tries anything cavalier." With that said, she saluted her farewell to the others and exited the tent.

Mustang sighed and slumped back to his seat. Falman awkwardly followed him to sitting, his bony hand still on his commander's shoulder.

The Colonel tilted his cup towards the scouts. "Do you ever speak to your regular superiors like that, men?"

Both men chuckled nervously and shook their heads. Fox laughed, the merry sound odd in the midst of all the tension. "I'm beginning to see the charm of it, Sir."

Mustang smiled in return and tested his aching hand with a flex. "Quite," he said.

O o O

Ten minutes saw the entire camp packed up and ready to march East. It wasn't that much of a feat considering how much they were leaving behind: the tents, all but two waterlogged radios and only enough rations as each man could carry. The few mounted soldiers at their disposal flanked the troop as they struggled through mud and sizable storm-streams towards the hulking ridge in the distance. The rain was so dense that without their compasses and the Sugarloaf as landmark, they would have surely strayed off-course. As it was, they forged on, heads down and mood sombre though strong.

Reluctant though he was to take advantage of Fox and Carstens, they'd already come back to him safely once before and he needed that kind of luck desperately. So he sent Carstens East to check their destination and Fox volunteered to go West to monitor the approach of the five hundred men. Any moment now, he was expecting their return. If one of them failed to, well then, that was information too.

Though his hand ached and his head throbbed terribly, Mustang was glad of one thing: they were on the move. Sitting in the embrace of the horseshoe and leered over by the Sugar Loaf, he'd felt closed in. Claustrophobic. At least they were moving towards _something_, perhaps their salvation, or perhaps to join the thousands of fallen Amestrians before them.

Regardless, his gloved right hand was thrust tightly in his pocket, and Havoc's smart lighter nestled firmly against his breast. With Hawkeye at his heel and Breda giving counsel from the left, he felt less the frightened conspiracy-theorist and more the powerful alchemist, ready to set the whole world on fire if it meant keeping his people safe.

Not for the first time since he took command of his small unit, they felt less like his men and more like Hawkeye's. Though she walked behind him, he detected every nodded direction she gave, every wave of her small, skilled hands. He could see her orders clear as day in the movement of the others. Even Breda, who walked beside him, had one ear primed for the first word from the Lieutenant.

_'If only they knew,'_ he thought, _'how much more she is now, at this very instant.'_ Rage exploded in him. He wanted to turn where he was, sketch an array and encase her in earth. Anything, _anything_ to keep her safe. She shouldn't be here in the rain, sodden and stressed. She should be back in Central; waiting for him. Anger continued to bubble in his stomach, as strong as it was sudden, and he cursed his own stupidity for not scheming something to keep her away. Hawkeye safe but spitting-fury was better than Hawkeye pregnant and in this hell. He was such a selfish fool, no matter what he tried.

"Hawkeye," Mustang clipped over the din of rain and thunder.

"Sir," she answered.

He sighed. That's all he needed for now. She walked behind him: his paradoxical love. Light walking behind a shadow.

After another ten minutes, Carstens appeared through the rain like a ghost-ship coming into port: pale and uncanny. He looked exhausted, his huge weight pressed down by the wetness of his uniform. His horse slid awkwardly in the mud and once or twice, nearly lost its rider. Anxious murmurs ran down the lines behind Mustang, and anticipation filled the air as surely as the rain did. Somewhere behind him, a young voice muttered: "Please God."

Eventually, the Corporal reached them. He dismounted without grace, almost losing his footing in the squelching, treacherous earth.

"Report, soldier," Mustang clipped, holding his bad hand up to halt the men behind him.

Carstens struggled for his breath. He was handed a canteen by a shivering youth in an oversized uniform. He drank vigorously, his thick neck pumping as the tinny water filled him.

Blinking against the rain, he smiled triumphantly at his Colonel. "All clear, Sir." He laughed, relief washing off him like a warm tide. "All clear. Not a man nor horse to be seen."

Mustang hung his head back, drinking in the deluge that fell upon him. The relief was strong enough to bring him to his knees almost. His neck cricked as he glanced back at Hawkeye who was staring at him from under her soaking, matted fringe. '_It's not over,_' that look said. '_But it's a good start.'_

Tripping forward to congratulate his man, Mustang was distracted by a commotion behind him. Careful not to slip, he turned to see Fox trotting towards them over the thick rivets of upturned earth. His nose and mouth were covered by the collar of his heavy black cape, but his eyes spoke of haste and danger.

"Sir," he breathed as he dismounted. His exhausted horse snorted behind him and knocked his shoulder once with its huge head. Its foaming flanks shivered as they were washed clean by the rain. "Sir, I-"

Mustang threw his head to Hawkeye who nodded and rushed to Fox, throwing her arm about his waist to steady him. He leaned heavily on her and Mustang felt a pang of vicious protectiveness. He blinked to clear his tired, strained mind.

"Report, Co-"

"Sir, perhaps we should forge on while we hear the report," Carstens suggested, voice full of nerves. He wasn't wrong. With five-hundred men on their tail, there wasn't a moment to lose.

"A moment, Corporal Carstens." Mustang focussed on Fox again who was struggling for breath. He knocked the canteen offered by Hawkeye away from his mouth. Mustang scowled and turned to continue. "Hawkeye, speak to the boy and find out what's what. Men! Forward-"

"No, sir!" It was Fox. "Sir, no- please-"

Beside him, Breda sucked his teeth. Mustang placed a hand on his arm to keep from falling.

"Spit it out, Fox," the Colonel ground out, sounding entirely too much like his commanders from yesteryear.

The boy, trembling in Hawkeye's hold, steadied his footing by curling his swarthy, shaking fingers around the Lieutenant's arm. He looked like he was about to vomit where he stood.

"Two-hundred and ten, Sir's what I counted. Just South of the 'Loaf," he panted. He bobbed his head to Carstens, his eyes brimming with emotion. "Not five-hundred at all. There were on-"

The bullet bit the Corporal through the forehead and struck the horse behind him. Hawkeye stumbled, struggling with Fox's slouching body. Shouts echoed down the lines and the clacking of over sixty guns cocking punctuated the roaring of the storm. The smell of acetone drifted outwards then disappeared in seconds, swallowed by the rain. Hawkeye dropped Fox and stumbled sideways as the horse reared up, fierce and slobbering. It tipped back on its hind legs, falling where she had been standing seconds before. It fell on the dead scout who was crushed again and again as the animal tried to right itself. Black mud clung to the boy's hand as it sank farther and farther under the bucking weight.

"Tactical genius!" cried Carstens, his gun trained on the horse. "You're done for, Mustang! You and all of your fool men!"

The horse screamed behind Mustang as it struggled in the liquid earth. A hoof shot out and caught the Colonel on the calf, sending him to his knees. His hands sank into the mud like hot knives through butter until he was up to his wrists in the stuff.

"Someone put that animal out of its misery!" Breda yelled, righting his commander roughly.

Hawkeye, or someone near her, did as was requested and the beast finally stilled. Fox's shocked face – grey eyes unseeing – stared up from under its foaming neck.

"Who?" Mustang shouted, bidding his men hold their fire with his outstretched right hand. At Carstens smile, Mustang kicked a clump of dirt. "Who owns you, man?!" he screamed, spit flying from his mouth.

Carsten's smile only widened at Mustang's fury. "Mills wasn't lying, Mustang. There really were five-hundred men when he saw them. We were fortunate with that."

The Colonel swallowed thickly. In his pocket, his glove burned – hungry for justice. A traitor. Was there anything worse? He never would have guessed _this_ man. Carstens – large, ungainly and accented, was _perfect_. Mustang had always congratulated himself as an impeccable judge of character. He'd spotted rats and weasels and every other version of a coward a hundred times before. He knew the game of lies inside-out; was infamous himself for that very reason. He _prided _himself on it. But this mission... it was like he was working in a fog. He wasn't himself and nothing around him was as it should be; a hall of mirrors in which he felt like little more than smoke.

His heart screamed for justice. Mustang stepped forward. "Why?" he asked. "You would kill us all?"

Carsten's gaze, deceptively simple, rested on the Colonel for such a long time, that Breda scooted sideways, blocking the Colonel bodily from the man's weapon. Finally, the Corporal spoke. "No."

He raised his pistol not even a hair's breadth. Hawkeye shifted.

It was for naught. Turning his gun quickly in his palm, the Corporal pressed the trigger. Barring Havoc and Hawkeye, every man flinched at the report, even Mustang. Breda stared disbelievingly as the jawless bulk of the Corporal dropped from his horse. The animal reared. Its white eyes glowed blue then black as storm-cast shadows played upon them. Lightning split the skies above them and was followed on the next beat by a crash of thunder. Carsten's horse bolted, its flanks jerking wildly as it sped off over the impossible terrain. The other horses whinnied and shuffled under their riders. All eyes fell on Mustang who regarded the fresh corpse with violent intent.

"Sir," Breda said, renewing his grasp on Mustang's arm.

The soldiers – good men, really – shivered behind their leader, awaiting his word. Only the occasional cough broke their communal silence. Fresh as they were, Vought had trained them well. They knew how to spot authority and follow it wisely when the situation called for it. Sullen eyes followed the scene from Hawkeye to Mustang, checking the faces of the Colonel's men for some hint of what was going through his mind.

"Seventy men South," Mustang said, closing his eyes again, retreating to that place far above the fields and corpses and wide-eyed horses. "Two hundred and ten West."

"Sir," confirmed Breda.

"And," Mustang breathed, filling his lungs with the scent of wet soil, cordite, grass and blood. "Two hundred and ninety men East. North, nothing. No bridges."

"Sir."

Another streak of lightning ran East from the Sugar Loaf and rent the sky above them. Clouds flashed purple-white in its path before the world fell into stormy darkness once more. Mustang rubbed his fingers together in his sodden pocket. He felt the cloth spark, _just_. When the time called for it, he'd use Havoc's lighter.

"We'll go South."

Breda accepted that with a cocked head. "South," he echoed.

Mustang turned. "We'll go South," he roared past the storm.

Hawkeye came to him, followed by Havoc, Falman, then Fuery.

Mustang met each of their eyes in turn, speaking slowly and surely. "We'll push South and root the seventy men out of their-" He glanced down at Carsten's corpse. Suddenly alarmed, he grappled for Hawkeye's arm. "Who went South? Who scouted South? Fox or Carstens?"

Breda canted his eyes to Havoc: '_He can't remember. He's dropping facts.'_

With a cough, Havoc stepped forward and answered, "Fox, Sir."

Mustang shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. "South," he said. "South."

"Sir, what-?" Hawkeye started, but was quieted by Mustang.

He strode up to a mounted Sergeant and took her horse by the reigns. She saluted him smartly despite the weather and her ruined uniform. She awaited his word, her face expressionless as Mustang's searching eyes surveyed her.

"Choose two other riders and go ahead of us," he said at last. "Try to get a sight on the weapons: grades, numbers, condition. Yes?"

Her horse danced under her, full of frightened energy. "Yes, Sir," she answered, and patted her mount's neck fondly.

Mustang gave the animal a rousing slap and returned to his team, adrenalin singing in his veins. "Fuery!" he called. The Sergeant struggled through the mud to reach him. "Radio? No chance?"

"No Sir. Not with transmitters this wet." The boy turned his face up to the sky, studying the clouds with quiet thought. "If we even had half an hour of a break, I might be able to dismantle one and dry it out but..." he trailed off, then added apologetically: "We can record, whatever good that does us."

Mustang bit his cheek. His black eyes danced back and forth, back and forth as his mind raced with possibility after possibility. Of two things he was certain: that Carstens hadn't acted alone, and that what few communications they were able to squeeze through were being tapped. How, when he had been so unlucky, had the Aerugonians been so obscenely fortunate? He didn't trust in such coincidences. The ears of their enemies were on them.

"What can I do, Sir?" Fuery asked quietly.

Mustang watched the retreating backs of the scouts. They were running on tens of minutes now - scarce, fleeing minutes - before one unit or the other fell on them. The push South into the gully would be hard, but at the very least it would buy them some time. And the tight space worked in their favour, at least. There was little Mustang knew better than trapping and burning. It was something of a speciality of his, and with all this hydrogen at his disposal he could really make some fireworks.

Leaning on Fuery, Mustang squinted to spot the riders through the rain. "Let's give them a chance to-"

A crash of thunder sounded. Mustang winced, cursing the storm.

"Sorry, sir?" Fuery roared over the retreating rumble.

"Give them a chance!" the Colonel yelled, but on the very heel of the thunderclap another deafening boom sounded. Here, the flash was not in the heavens, but on the field. It sprang upwards and out, like a blooming flower: white following yellow following red following black. Clumps of flesh hit the ground like rotten fruit from a tree.

"Mines!" a man screamed at the fringe of their group.

"Sir," Hawkeye gasped, and was sure to continue, but a frantic whinny and another deafening explosion shook the field.

The soldiers ducked, some of them falling to the ground to shield themselves from the light and sound and stench.

"They've rigged the fields," said Havoc, with wonder almost.

Breda, who had turned back to the troops the instant the second explosion sounded, was bringing them to order with limited success.

Around Mustang, the world went utterly quiet, as though he were submerged under miles upon miles of water. Hawkeye had turned shouting at a Sergeant who was making a beeline for the Colonel, eager for answers. Havoc was barking orders at the rest of the men, pulling them back from the edge of the mine ridden open field. Beside him, Fuery was turned sharply at his waist, rummaging awkwardly in his backpack. Falman and Breda rushed to flank Havoc, checking each small command – assuring them, instilling in them the strength they needed under the burden of such hellish bad luck. Mustang studied each face in turn. Some boys had started crying, huffing in great breaths to calm themselves. Another flash of lightning cut the sky, but Mustang was deaf to the thunder, deaf to everything. He saw face after face of the people who needed him, each locked in their own terrifying story. He looked into the heavens, into the bruised clouds that rolled on and on forever. They flashed here and there, savage. Incendiary.

Someone was calling 'Sir.' It was Hawkeye; his child within. _Safe_ within her; under blue wool, white cotton, blonde hairs like spilled corn, pink glorious skin, muscle, blood, thick waters. He rolled his eyes down through the clouds. Down they went, West through the purple gloom, through lashing rain and finally, to the Sugar Loaf. Round, squat and obnoxious, it stared back at him through the storm.

Tolven's womb. Their salvation.

* * *

_Central City, 20th November 1915_

_The book closed. His own evil. The air answered and the heavens cried._

They wasted no time in fitting his arm. It lay uselessly by his side like the dead thing it was. He had tried to move it, from boredom more than ambition, but achieved little more than a headache and cold sweat. It was a vicious looking piece of technology; more like Grand's arm than Fullmetal's. The back of the hand carried his array – more artistically drawn than his gloved pattern. The tips of his thumb and fingers were deeply grooved – perfect for making sparks. And it was beautiful - stunningly so. Its brushed steel was muted but inarguably fine. Emblazoned on it in textured black were suggestions of horses in Xingese style that spiralled the length of it from wrist to shoulder. Incoherent in form yet instantly recognisable: like shadows. Like fire. They really were trying to make a legend of him then. They capitilised on everything, even his absent Xingese history.

The automail surgery itself felt much the same as everything else: a confusing, cloying nightmare. If he closed his eyes, the memories rushed on him: freezing steel against open muscle; nerves electrocuted; bone scraped; skin flayed back from his shoulder to rest against his jaw like a warm flannel. They'd shaved his hair yet again – presumably for the upcoming alchemic surgery, and when he had occasion to look in the mirror, he barely recognised himself. He looked haunted, hard.

Piece by piece, he was disappearing. No. No, that wasn't quite accurate. He was being _replaced_. His own _self_ was being usurped by the State, to be cultivated into some new land entirely. He scoffed now to think of his former naivety: that 'self' was the one place the State would never reach again. How awfully wrong he was.

Minutes had become nothing to him, and he could no longer tell one hour from the next. In his windowless, airless room, night and day were an abstract concept from long ago. His life before Tolven seemed ancient, mythological almost, and there were times he doubted its existence at all. Those moments terrified him the most. If Ed couldn't follow through on his request, then his past wouldn't just be a dream. It would be eliminated absolutely.

Here, in a room spacious enough to be uncomfortable, he awaited oblivion. In the morning, his self that he once thought so untouchable would be erased. He sighed and let his head fall against his tender shoulder, still bruised terribly from the surgery. He looked down the length of his arm to where clean, silver fingers lay curled upwards like little statues. He looked through them – South – and closed his eyes.

"_Have you lost your mind?" Hawkeye spat, spinning him by one arm to face her._

_Mustang glared down at her, breathing heavily through his nose. '_No time! No time!' _When he spoke, his voice was cold, a little mean even. "Our choices are limited, Lieutenant."_

_Lieutenant. She looked at him hard, betrayed. "Not _that _limited."_

_He shook his head and turned back to the men, snatching his arm from her grasp. "Move!" he shouted. And so they did. They moved East to the Sugar Loaf._

"Sir."

An orderly, nervous to be near him. Mustang knew every type of hospital employee by now. He knew the big and gentle, the small and efficient. The righteous. The reluctant. He'd seen them all. Here was the simple man, turned animal and nervous by the complex lump in the bed.

He cracked an eye open and smirked at the sight above him. He was right. The orderly was one of those blunt, monolithic men. Big and softly muscled. Kind by their purity, rather than by any goodness. Hughes called them Teddy Bears. Where was Hughes? His absent minder.

"Sir, we've been asked not to feed you before your um-"

Mustang nodded his head, bothered by the man's embarrassment on his behalf. "Never mind."

"I brought you some tea just to- Well it's not tea, exactly, sort of a... juice. It's warm-"

The Colonel sighed and looked at the man, and God, he really did try to be patient, but this bumbling innocence in the heart of all this blackness was unbearable. Couldn't they have sent sneering minions? Silent sentinels? Someone he could really hate, _really _and with energy, in his final moments of being himself? Or being alive at all, depending.

He sighed loudly. "Leave the tea, thank you."

The orderly smiled. "Oh... oh," he chirped, despite his size. "Very good, I eh-"

"And please," Mustang said, holding a hand out for silence. "Just. Go."

There was a silence, and Mustang almost cried at the absurdity of it. That _he- _the prisoner cripple in the bed felt bad for wounding such a being. "I'm sorry," he said. Scarcely believing himself. "Just please, please leave."

That said, he closed his eyes. He wanted to fling the warm tea at that lumbering square back as it shuffled out of the room. He wanted some violence, _something_ to mark this final night. But he was harmless. And that's why they sent him harmless people – to mock him. He knew Bormann well enough. His throat thickened with the onset of tears. He scrunched his eyes tighter, willing away the swamping helplessness.

_Mustang had been aware of them the whole time, standing miserably behind him as he sketched the array. Grumbles of distrust had started amongst the men, running the breadth of emotion from fear to outright talk of mutiny. Faithful, but they too wary of Mustang's judgement, his men rallied the others; kept them at bay. The chalk barely sufficed, crumbling like cottage cheese between Mustang's trembling fingers as he traced an array he hadn't used in over a decade. Geochemistry: once learned, never forgotten apparently._

_He finished in minutes. Survival was his master now, and time his enemy._

"_Stand back!" he yelled._

_His men echoed him, but Hawkeye didn't stray from his crouched form. He could feel the heat from her back washing against the heat of his own: two opposing currents meeting. Energy crackled._

"_Clear!" Havoc called._

"_Clear!" Falman echoed._

_Breda and Fuery answered the chorus. Hawkeye said nothing, like a cat who had climbed naughtily into bed, hoping not to be noticed._

"_You're not clear, Lieutenant," Mustang shouted without turning around. The din of the storm made civil talk impossible._

"_I'm where I should be," she said without irony._

_Mustang considered shoving her aside then and there. In front of everyone. He saw his action play out in his mind's eye: her feet sliding in the mud, the astonished soldiers. But he relinquished. He'd need his energy for bigger battles with his stubborn aide. He pressed his fingers to the rough stone and felt the alchemy leap into existence, humming through the array._

_The granite gut of the mountain split open like a rotten fruit._

Mustang registered a cough through his hazy half-sleep.

"Some arm," Hughes said with mock admiration.

Mustang wondered if he was beyond civilities now: if anyone would ever again bother to knock on his door before coming in. He opened his eyes and saw his friend sitting tired and bent in the perpetual brightness of his room. The man looked dreadful: old and papery. If quizzed, any child would put him over fifty. Children are like that, always thinking bigger than fact.

"You're looking fresh," said Mustang. He didn't smile. Neither did Hughes.

The inspector removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. The frames hung from the thin, pale fingers of his other hand. He sniffed and put them back on. Mustang chased pity from his heart. He had to remember where each man stood on the checkered board. Hughes was on _their_ side. A cruel assessment perhaps, but Hughes certainly wasn't playing for him. That phrase came to mind: that one couldn't be betrayed by one's enemies.

"In the morning?" asked Hughes, without asking really.

Mustang nodded. He tried to move his little automail finger, but the gears in his elbow whirred instead.

The lights above them dimmed for a second before returning to their usual, offensive brightness. The room looked whiter than before. White bed, white walls, white lights, white basin, white towels, white drawers, white door. Then two dark men: dark hair, dark thoughts, dark hearts. Hughes opened his mouth and snapped it shut again as Mustang began talking, low and detached.

"I don't know why you're here."

Hughes snickered, insulted. "Roy-"

Mustang continued, wishing to look away but unable to look anywhere but at his friend's grey, drawn face. "Your job is done. I won't be hurting any more people the State doesn't want me to. You can write that good deed in your diary, Hughes. Well done."

"Hey now-"

"I killed the nurse because you didn't have the strength to kill me first."

"No-"

"You saw that I suffered. You saw that I was dangerous and will become more dangerous still. You would have done it for a dog, had it been suffering. Even to an enemy. But you couldn't do it for me."

A gasp exploded from Hughes, bright with pain. He crouched from the bed and onto his knees. He took Mustang's hand – his steel, unfeeling hand - in his own.

Oh, he was wounded. But Mustang wanted to wound him deeper. He wanted to banish the innocence, the _kindness_ his friend wore like a shield. He wanted to destroy it- for Hughes to know that the one thing he believed set him apart from every other soldier made him the most toxic of all. God protect the world from the innocent well-intentioned!

So hurt was on the Colonel's agenda. It was mean and it was arguably for nothing. In the morning, either Mustang wouldn't know who Maes Hughes was at all, or he would be dead. But that didn't matter. As he saw Hughes bent like a broken straw on the white floor, he felt betrayed beyond any emotion, any pain or hunger or love than ever before in his life. It swelled in him like a cancer, pushed its way through each vein, each limb, to the tips of his toes and fingers. He was filled with _hate_ for Maes Hughes.

"My one solace in all of this," he began in that same detached voice, but suddenly – as if he'd been punched – his whole chest tightened. "Is that tomorrow Maes Hughes will be erased from my life."

Huge green eyes, glassy and hurting – desperate, desperate eyes stared at him, and he stared back. He met that desperation with his own bitter hatred.

"No," Hughes said. "Roy-" He shook his head and a tear traced his cheek.

Mustang was speaking in a voice thick with emotion but he _would_ say what he had to say. Hughes left the war behind, left Ishbal behind, and climbed into bed with his ignorant, innocent wife – his salvation. He swung Elysia around and around with hands drenched in blood. The killer Hughes, he left behind. He would _not_ leave this transgression behind. Hughes was good, yes. But virtue wore the face of Riza Hawkeye: who would have killed him if she had to. _That_ was devotion. Loyalty. Strength. Love.

"You practically delivered me to the operating room yourself. Bormann was lucky: to find a pawn like you in his pocket."

The lights dimmed again, and Hughes looked up. Now on his knees, salty tears falling between the dead cracks in Mustang's automail fingers, the man scarcely looked like the friend he had loved so dearly anyway. Mustang suspected that, in his heart, he had already grieved for Maes Hughes. These new tears that sprang in his eyes: they were anger. He had been _wronged_.

"I have never-"

"No... please, Roy..."

"Never..." Mustang sucked in air like he was drowning. His voice rattled. "In my life-!"

The Colonel's voice echoed off the walls of the large, cold room.

Hughes pressed his forehead to metal knuckles. "No," he whispered.

"-despised a person as I despise you now."

They were both crying. Hughes with eyes closed, Mustang with eyes open – just as they had always been.

And in the morning, there would be no hungover apology – no excuses or feigned bashfulness.

The book closed on Roy Mustang and Maes Hughes.

_The cavity he'd created was small, but large enough for their needs. Some soldiers huddled against the walls while others set to organising the rations and munitions they'd taken when they'd first left camp. Their cave was bone dry: a welcome little place to live or die._

_Mustang was bent over a radio together with Fuery, drying the machine out piece by agonising piece. He'd never been used as a human soldering iron before, but it seemed Tolven was a place of firsts. The transistor was in bad shape but becoming more serviceable with every painstaking spark._

"_Our messages are being intercepted," the Colonel said quietly. Fuery's hands paused for a second before he continued shifting tiny parts around. He removed some casing and held it up to Mustang to dry with a puff of warm air. "Either that or one of these men has a pretty advanced radio that can fit on their person unseen."_

_The boy chuckled. Whether with humour or with geeky incredulity, Mustang wasn't sure._

"_I suppose," the Colonel continued, twisting the tiniest fringe of wires together, "I haven't considered telepathy."_

_Havoc snorted a little way off beside them and pulled another drum magazine from a small case. He tossed it at a young private who nearly crumpled under the weight._

_Mustang stopped Fuery's hands with his own. The motion drew the attention of the others and soon all his team barring Breda crouched around him. "We're matched, almost man for man, by the troop hidden in the gully. Another five hundred are about to fall on us like a guillotine. We _cannot _outgun them. Not in this weather."_

_Falman agreed with a minute nod. He looked to Hawkeye, then to Mustang. "So what should we do? We can't hide here forever- they'll blow us out of here in a matter of minutes."_

_Mustang sighed and readied himself. He resolutely _did not_ look at his Lieutenant. "Not if they think we're already dead."_

"_Sir!" barked Breda. All eyes snapped to him. He stood with one arm outstretched, weighed down with tens of clanking dog tags. "They're all here." He smiled and prodded a chubby finger at the team. The dog tags rattled merrily. "Almost all of them. Give them up, lads."_

_Mustang nodded. "Well team," he smirked, despite his rolling stomach. "You heard the man. Off with your tags."_

_With wary, curious eyes the team acquiesced. Everyone but Hawkeye._

"_What about yours, Sir?"_

_Mustang set to work on the radio again. "Oh come now, Lieutenant. You know I never fly in the face of uniform requirements. Mine stays with me." He looked at her hard. "Your dog tag – give it to Breda, Lieutenant."_

This time, the door was knocked, albeit as it was already being opened by one very recognisable hand. Probably the most recognisable hand in Amestris.

"Fullmetal," Mustang said. His voice was still a little thick from before. He looked at the clock on the wall to his right. "Isn't this past your bedtime?"

Rather valiantly, the boy managed a laugh. Mustang was glad of it. Their last parting was hazy but distressing to think of.

"You look terrible," Edward said, throwing himself back into a seat. He slapped his own metal arm down on his commander's. "That's about the best looking part of you these days."

"These days I'm acquiring parts like an old car," Mustang smiled, then laughed when Edward told him the comparison was more or less accurate. They both fell into a pleasant silence and sat like that for a long time. Long enough for an orderly to come in, deposit fresh water and leave again. Fullmetal helped himself, of course.

"So, you're the ghost of Christmas Present, then," the Colonel said.

Edward looked at him like he'd gone soft in the head. Which may also have been a rather accurate assessment.

"What are you talking about, you dumb cripple? You're not getting any presents from me."

"Dickens?" asked Mustang, disbelieving. "For the love of God, Fullmetal. Is there any ounce of you that's a normal child?" Edward stared back at him with affected blankness. "A Christmas Carol? The book? I'm Scrooge."

"Oh! The _Scrooge_ thing... Okay. Now I get you." Fullmetal gave his ruse away by holding his finger aloft in a 'eureka' manner.

"Very funny, kid," grumbled Mustang. "In any case. You're too late for Christmas Past. Christmas Past is long gone." He aimed for light-heartedness, but fell desperately short.

"Hughes?"

Mustang said nothing, and so confirmed it.

They fell into another silence, this one reflective. It was Edward who finally broke it. His voice was so quiet that Mustang had to strain to hear.

"I'm still thinking," he whispered.

The Colonel grunted, a signal to continue. The boy said nothing so: "About what?"

"You request. I haven't decided yet. I'm sorry."

Mustang's chest tightened. He didn't know if it was with love for this boy or something else. It was as strong and as violent as his feeling towards Hughes. How could one person – one teenager – be so strong? So resolute. He was _thinking_ about it. Only, _only_ Fullmetal would deem that an appropriate answer at such a time.

"You know, limited time is the great decision maker. And crisis," said Mustang.

Fullmetal said nothing. He looked glumly at the clock, then back at Mustang's hand, or maybe his own that lay beside it.

Mustang bent his knee back and nudged Edward with his heel. "Men make the best choices when they need to piss. Did you know? My first instructor told me that. I haven't heard it disproved yet."

Edward looked horrified for a second before thumping Mustang's left arm with his right. Metal sang off metal and filled the room. It _did_ sound like Christmas, never mind the date.

"You're such an asshole," the boy said and he was smiling again. He shook his head and looked at Mustang with those fabulous, uncanny eyes of his. "God, you're such an asshole."

The Colonel simply opened one palm and shrugged with one shoulder: what can ya do?

Edward stood abruptly. Tears were on their way. "I'll see you in the morning, Colonel Bastard." He was already making his way towards the door. Mustang rolled his eyes. Afraid of _crying_ at such a time! Edward Elric was one of a kind.

"Hey kid!" he called, trying to sit up a little.

Fullmetal stopped with his hand on the doorknob. He cocked his head, listening. His shoulders spoke of nervousness; as if waiting for a blow.

"Do me a favour?"

"Depends," said the boy.

It was maybe unfair, what he was about to say. He swallowed and said it anyway. "Tell the ghost of Christmas Future not to come, huh?"

Edward sighed. "I said I was still thinking about it." And he was gone.

"_They're all dead. There's nothing – there's... I'm sorry... I've lost them all. They're all gone: Vought, his men, mine... they're all dead. I'm the only one! I need extraction my co-ordinates are..." Mustang scrunched the map at his knees. It sounded convincing enough: a distraught man seeking information. Around him, all of the men watched on – some baffled, others darkly amused. "They're ugh- 31, 33, 19 Sierra. And..." he paused for effect. Despite the pressure and his own fear, he was rather enjoying himself. Hawkeye always said he had a singular taste in humour. "110, 20, 59 Whiskey. Immediate extraction required... Over."_

_He flicked the switch, ending the recording. He looked at Fuery. "I just take this outside, keep it dry and flick that switch again, right?"_

"_Right – eh – but make sure you push it all the way back to transmit," answered the Sergeant. "I'm sorry Sir. We just can't get a signal in here... all this granite... I'm-"_

"_Fuery, you're an excellent technician but I doubt you can create mountains. It isn't your fault. Stop apologising."_

_The Colonel stood with the radio tucked under one arm. Havoc came behind him and draped a great wax coat over his shoulders, covering the radio. Breda approached with the dog tags and took Mustang's right hand. He let the tags slide from his own arm and onto his commander's, they clanged and bounced against his thigh. There was a kind of ritual at play – a holiness in the air that both stirred and fortified the other men. Mustang half expected Falman to come and kiss his feet. Wouldn't put it past the man._

"_Men," the Colonel began. "When I leave here, I will seal up the exit again. You have plenty of supplies and there are fissures enough for air. I expect to be back within the hour – two at most."_

_The cave was silent and dark around him. Only one or two storm lanterns shone dully in the murk._

_Mustang took a deep, steadying breath. "If I should fail to return to you, you are not without options." He let that settle, watched his meaning sink into the men like a heavy stone falling to the bottom of a pond. With new fervour, he began listing his instructions: orders followed by contingencies, followed by more orders and each with their own complicated contingencies. He called Fuery forward, called him 'God of Communications' before hastily summoning the detonation master and a nominal quarter-master. The men accepted each request and instruction with as much bravery as they could muster. Here they were, under hundreds of feet of mountain about to bid their commander – and only alchemist – adieu._

_The Colonel adjusted the radio under his arm awkwardly. "Each of you has the strength to survive this. Believe me when I say that you are not merely men, not just soldiers, but you are my hope-" He locked eyes with Hawkeye. Her brown eyes ignited with quiet horror. "You are an investment of mine."_

_'No', she mouthed. Her face twisted into something ancient and ugly._

"_You are something I _must_ come back to. That is the strength I'll take with me."_

The ghost of Christmas Future did come. A foul thing, dressed in grey.

"Bormann," Mustang said. He didn't bother trying to sit up. He had no need to be proud in front of such a weasel. Bormann didn't care for shows of strength or poise in any case, didn't know what such qualities were. He probably wouldn't recognise them if they were shat onto his shoe. He had as much honour as the bed pan under the cot. "It's late. I don't want any visitors."

Bormann cocked his head and smiled. He leaned against the door silently and regarded Mustang with his delicate grey eyes. His long eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones from the harsh lights above them, and he looked every part the pantomime horror.

"I suppose you drifted under the door in a cloud of smoke," said Mustang, not deigning to look at his latest visitor.

Bormann smiled indulgently. "I know everything about you, Mustang and yet, I always forget how _funny _you are."

Mustang snorted. "I aim to please."

Bormann tipped himself off the door and stepped around the bed lightly. He lowered himself into the seat Ed had occupied not even an hour before.

He tapped Mustang's hand. The Colonel sighed. He looked into the face of his grand opponent: saw the blue-veined eyelids and the yellow skin stretched across fine cheeks. Bormann was handsome in his own fragile, serpentine way. Like an exotic beetle found in a cave without light: pale and alien and unknowable.

The Colonel flinched as the smell of damp filled his nose. He saw pink granite, a flash, then nothing. He jumped again when a knuckle rapped on his head.

"Still with us, Mustang?"

"Til morning at least," the Colonel answered, straining his neck to lose the feeling of water in his ear.

Bormann took a deep breath and sighed. It seemed as if he were about to stand. Instead, he fell forward and curled his fingers around Mustang's left arm. He brought his face so close to Mustang's, the alchemist could count the large pores either side of his nose. He smiled, mouth full of little teeth and large, baby-pink gums.

"I won," he said.

Mustang wanted to spit. He stopped himself with considerable effort. "Yes. You won, Bormann."

The secretary sat back and crossed his legs. He folded his hands in his lap, and they rested there like a pair of little white birds. "You never know, we might even grow to be friends. I could tell you anything and you'd be bound to believe me. I've always wanted to share a drink and a cigar with the Flame Alchemist – witness first hand his legendary charm." He laughed and looked at Mustang with a wild expression, as if they were both in on the same exciting, juvenile prank.

"Bradley will kill you," Mustang said. Bormann's smile stayed fixed in place, as though he'd heard it all before. But a true smile fades quickly, and so the alchemist saw the lie in the frozen, grinning mask. "You think you know him, just like you think you know everything, but you will never understand a man like Bradley. He's military-"

"-and I'm not." Bormann rolled his eyes. "Yes, Colonel. I understand you."

Mustang smiled and shook his head before leaning back (so tired) against the hard pillow. "You don't. You've played me, yes – from the very beginning. I'm perfect for Cassandra – you're right. But Bormann, the chess pieces never change. Do you understand that? The chess pieces, even the pawns like me – they are immortal. Its the players who leave the table – who lose."

There was a little shift in the man's countenance; the slightest of turns. His toes curled away from Mustang.

"The moment I'm in play again, you'll be disposed off. Probably subjected to the Project yourself."

"A nice bedtime story, Colonel."

Mustang smiled and looked Bormann in the eye at last. His smile deepened. "But we both have our stories with you, Martin. Mr. Bormann. So watch out. Maybe I'll get you before Bradley does."

Bormann tutted then dug out another smile. Smug – yes, but jittery too. Mustang pushed himself to sitting with his good hand. His eyes drifted to Bormann's soft, white neck, sloping like fresh meringue. Trembling like a maggot.

"Maybe as you stand there, leering while I'm dragged in, I'll tear your throat out with my teeth." Mustang laughed, just to show his white teeth and narrowed eyes. "I'm sure I'll get over it. Won't I, Marty? Why, all I need is a second. The ways in which we're trained to dismantle a man... they go on and on. And a few minutes later, the whole thing would be wiped clean from my mind, leaving you with the horror. A good story. A revenge piece."

The secretary stood and smirked down at Mustang. "Whatever fantasy you need to see you through the night, Colonel."

"Be careful. I have a vivid imagination."

Bormann looked over his shoulder and Mustang was pleased to see how riled he was, though the secretary tried to hide it with that flimsy little smirk.

"Not as vivid as mine," said Bormann and left the room.

Mustang watched the door for a long time. He listened to the hum of his living body; all that flesh working just for him. He understood the miracle of it – had done, since he was a boy. He closed his eyes.

"_You never know, we might even grow to be friends."_

Mustang closed his eyes and thought of Bormann, skinned alive by fire. For the first time in his life, he smiled at his own evil.

_The men rejoiced. It wasn't a loud affair, but at last they had direction again. Where moments before, they were bemused, even frightened by the strange turn in proceedings, now they found hope. _ _Truly_, t_hey understood how close they had come to the claws of death. From East and West, five-hundred men would pour onto the fields of South Tolven and find nothing but the shadow of Mustang's command. Duped, the Aerugonians would not be able to wait around forever. They would have to seek direction, munitions, food, shelter, the love of their families... they would leave Tolven and the Amestrians would be free. Suddenly, even though the storm raged, the Amestrians had found some small light – a break in the clouds and respite from the rain._

_There was one lone voice in the sea of cheers._

_Mustang strode away from the rapturous, giddy talk and away from that one fierce cry that rang out as clear as a bell. He felt as though he were walking in a nightmare: putting one foot in front of the other but getting no closer to his destination. He needed to reach the mouth of the cave. He needed to get there before she-_

"_No!" _

_She was close now. Her voice came from so close behind him, but he continued as if he had heard nothing. There were other steps too; not Falman or Fuery. Havoc or Breda certainly._

_The renewed joy of his men was dying as one by one they observed the spectacle: a Lieutenant tripping on the heels of her commander._

_She shouted again: "No!" This time, she caught him by the arm. The dog tags rattled like cans on the back of a wedding car._

_He shrugged her off roughly, roughly enough that Breda shouted: "Hey!"_

_He knew it was too late. That by now, this display deserved some attention other than his walking away, but he couldn't stop. He couldn't look at her. He couldn't look at her face, knowing how grievously he was betraying her. He could abandon her blindly, but he could not turn to face her and bid her stay._

_He charged forward, quickly enough that any faster and he would have to break into a jog. She caught him again. He could hear both Havoc and Breda now, urging her back, whispering harshly for her to calm down. And still he let her humiliate herself. It was better than facing her, better than letting her forbearance and passion convince him to let her come. No. He had to go alone._

"_Turn and look at me," she said, clinging to him._

_Other fingers had found Mustang's arm and pushed, prying her from him._

"_Turn and look at me, you coward!"_

_The cave was silent by now. There was no more cheering. Each man watched the theatre with clenched hearts._

_Mustang stopped at last, heard her panting behind him. He thought of the Sugar Loaf under the purple cotton of the sky, and them inside the Sugar Loaf. He thought of _her _inside the Sugar Loaf, and inside her their secret made flesh._

"_Get her off me," he whispered, to Breda or to Havoc – it didn't matter._

_She pulled roughly on his arm and the tags swung madly. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare-"_

"_Get her off me!" His voice came high and alien – not at all his own. It bounced off the cave walls and shook water from the shining granite ceiling._

_Havoc and Breda wrestled her from him. She was shouting. 'No! No! No!' It rang like machine gun fire, on and on and on._

_He'd made it to the mouth of the cave, slipped once and then again before falling. On his hands and knees, the rain battered his neck and back. It stuck his hair to his head and his coat to his back. He had dropped the radio, and hastily tore the coat from his back to shelter it from the storm._

_He heard a yelp of pain and a second later she was on him again: yanking him to his feet, shouting at him, calling him 'bastard'. The dog tags slid from his arm and landed at his feet. _

_He raised a hand to push her away but she raised hers to meet him. Like warring cats, they swung at each other – one trying to cease the madness of the other._

_Behind her, Breda and Havoc approached like wary lion tamers – arms outsretched and Breda with a bloody nose. Distracted by their approach, Hawkeye glanced back then realising her lapse, immediately tried to recover. Mustang was swift though, damaged hand or not and he caught one wrist then the other with his good hand. She wailed and tugged back with her whole body, boots sliding in the mud. She freed one hand and swiped at him._

"_Someone!" Mustang cried. He winced when her palm found his face. The slap echoed and was followed by a clap of thunder. "Someone please... please... just-"_

_Again, thunder rolled above them. More soldiers were inching towards the mouth of the cave, baffled - unsettled - by the theatre of the affair. _

_Havoc tried for Hawkeye's waist but she kicked back, catching him painfully on the knee._

"_Please..."_

"_No!" she called, and her voice was strong – stronger than his. In spite of her fury, her voice sounded reasonable... dangerous._

_He was fearful of her strength – that she'd convince them all._

"_Hawkeye-" he said between gritted teeth as her fingers dug into his neck and ear and chin._

"_Don't you see?!" she cried, eyes fixed on him but head turned to call over her shoulder. "He left the other radio with Fuery because he doesn't-"_

_He stopped her mouth with his hand. She slapped him and sent them both stumbling further into the rain. _

"_He's not sure! When have you known him to be this scared?! When?!"_

_He shook his head. She was going to follow him. She was going to follow him! There was no time! No time! Aerugo was closing in on them – pinchers easing shut with inevitable, unstoppable weight._

"_Someone take her from me," he said. He wasn't sure if he was crying but he thought: 'I must be. Surely, I must be.'_

_She held herself upright with one hand fisted in his jacket, right above his heart. Her fingers flexed and tightened, flexed and tightened – cat-like and hopelessly possessive. She tore her eyes from him and stared at Breda. "Heymans... Heymans you know! He's sc-"_

_Grabbing the wrist that shot out from his heart like a pale arrow, Mustang pulled her towards him and into a kiss. She knew immediately what his intentions were, but the men did not – and that was his advantage. She pushed against him, open-palmed and animal. They both slid in the mud. Once, Mustang went to one knee but he struggled upright again. She moaned, angry, into his mouth and his lips trembled at her furious objections but she had already lost. He plucked the oxygen from her lungs like a cruel child pulling the wings from a bee. Her lips were so cool in the rain, and even as he sobbed against them he worshipped them. Her thumps grew weaker, her moans became confused hums until she at last feinted in his arms. He caught her by her back and legs and hoisted her into a bridal hold. His nose was bleeding. Maybe even his mouth. Thick raindrops splashed against her neck and hurried beneath her clinging collar. He stumbled towards Havoc like a dying man._

"_This woman-" he shouted as he went, sure that the men closest to him could hear at least. "Is with child. With- with my child."_

_Horror bleached the faces of his team and stilled the ranks of the others. Havoc's eyes hardened to gems. Mustang did not care._

"_I am not... I..." What could he say? What could he say for men who didn't understand him by now? He had nothing to say to them. He looked at her still face and her pale, exquisite neck. "Please keep her safe."_

_He thrust her body against Havoc who just managed to catch her with outstretched arms and a dumbfounded, _wronged _face._

"_You _bastard_, Mustang!" he called._

_Mustang didn't need to tell any of them that he knew that for himself._

_Within a minute, the Sugar Loaf was sealed, the radio retrieved and the dog tags once again jangling on his arm. He pushed forward into the storm, bearing the fates of hundreds of men. They couldn't imagine, how death would be visited on them that day._

_Depositing the radio and tags in the crook of two large stones, the Colonel raised his gloved hand and started pulling. The air answered and the heavens cried._

* * *

_**Thank you x**_


	11. Shame

**Disclaimer: **I don't own!

**Here we are chaps.**

**A huge thanks to my amazing beta, Kalirush who also happens to be a fabulous writer. Go look! Thanks also to those of you who have listened to me moan throughout, in particularly AntigoneRex and DisasterGirl, the former having been subjected to emails on the minute. Sowee!**

**On fanfiction. One of the frustrating things about reading fanfiction, is we don't have the same sense of length that we do with a book. The screen doesn't help us manage our expectations of what's to come. So, imagine this. You're holding the book Here Dead We Lie. The majority of the pages sit heavily in your left hand, so much so, it's almost awkward. In your right fingers, you are holding the last few pages. Maybe two more chapters, tops. Another hour or two's reading, and you'll be finished. That's where you are.**

**Anyway, enjoy~**

* * *

_Sion Mills, Eastern Region, 16th August 1901_

_Poor, practical Riza. No funny business. A fine a thing as he had ever known._

Summer was at an end. The grass had dulled a shade and the nights were no longer stifling and full of wet heat. The last of the great summer storms had raged its worst and there was nothing left now but to prepare for the cold Eastern winter. Autumn was short in this part of Amestris and it was no joke when the locals said: Go to bed in your swimsuit, wake up in your scarf.

Roy Mustang sat alone in the Hawkeye study. Under his right hand lay his notebook, while under his left sat the largish, neatly bound treatise, _Our World and Its Elements. _His task was to copy the original – word for word – into his notebook. It was a punishment. He'd been caught sleeping the day before when he should have been re-ordering the chemicals cabinet. Hawkeye was a man of traditional values, and so, while he could have asked Roy to write a reflective essay, examine the qualities of Marcus Hutton's theory or even mow the lawn, he'd given Roy _this. _Copying was a very, _very _effective punishment for a boy like Roy Mustang. Boring and without any value, it edged towards torture.

He dropped his pen and watched it roll awkwardly into the central trough in his notebook. He groaned and stretched upwards, feeling each tired bone in his back pop and settle. He reached his right hand outwards and made easy circles with his wrist, whinging a little when strained muscles pulled sorely. Puffing his cheeks out and scowling through the wall at where Master Hawkeye was surely working, Roy picked up the treatise with his right hand and the notebook with his left and swapped them over. He began copying with his left, each stroke and fluted letter as perfect as they had been when he'd been writing with his stronger hand. He smiled to himself. Copying! He felt like a naughty six-year-old, not a sixteen-year-old master apprentice.

"That cranky old, ba-"

"Roy!"

Roy squealed and spun towards the door, successfully smudging his last three lines as he did so. "Master Hawkeye!"

The older alchemist pushed the door open, and stooping, made his way into the room. With eyes wetted from intense reading, Hawkeye surveyed the scene before him. He seemed satisfied, at least, that Roy had been writing and not sleeping. He coughed into his shoulder then spoke in his low, thin voice. "What progress are you making, Roy?"

"Yes," answered Roy stupidly before he belatedly understood the question. He shook his head and replaced the pen on the table. "I'm just over halfway, sir."

Hawkeye's eyes narrowed at the smudged paper, then at Roy. Goddamn if Riza hadn't given him the same deeply suspicious look when she caught him in the pantry that time. The similarities between father and daughter, superficially at least, were startling. Creepy even. The man raised his chin a little, gesturing to the notebook.

"Interesting, is it?"

Roy's eyes narrowed in return. This was one of those Hawkeye tests. The family specialised in codes. Codified elbows to the ribs, glances across the room, a door left ajar, a door fully closed... Everything in the Hawkeye house seemed to carry some other, deeper meaning. One had to tread carefully with questions of this nature.

Roy was something of an expert by now. Or so he believed. "In what regard, sir?"

"Hutton's fourth rule, for example."

With a shy smile, Roy ventured forth onto the proverbial eggshells. "The rules are interesting if at times inaccurate and outdated." He checked Hawkeye's response. The man was impassive. "But no, sir. This is not interesting. I'm copying his work when I could be analysing it."

Hawkeye sighed. Roy flinched a little. The man said: "Go on."

"The value of this task is not alchemical."

"Is there any value to this task, Roy?"

Roy looked back at his little notebook, its pages wrinkled with still-drying ink. Inside were hundreds and hundreds of someone else's words, someone else's thoughts. He wanted to say, "No, there bloody isn't." But he knew what Hawkeye wanted.

"Yes. Academic value. Moral, even. I slept on the job. It was... immature." The final word stuck in his throat like a troublesome apple pip. He swallowed it with some effort.

Hawkeye considered his apprentice for a long time, his deeply-set eyes glinting powerfully in the murky dark by the door. He nodded at last. "I have another task for you."

Roy blinked back at his master. Something else! Something besides Hutton's muttony old language and a sore wrist. "Yes?" Roy leaned back in his chair a little, feigning studious disinterest. "Yes sir?"

"I sent Riza into town some time ago for supplies."

Riza. Riza in her oversized summer jacket and silly country cap. Riza whose shoulders were more toned than his, who could chop twice as many logs as he, and who had taught him how to split sugarcane. Riza would be fine. She was always inexorably fine. "Sir," said Roy.

"I appear to...," the man paused to cough, this one different. This was not a real cough but a fake one. Roy was an expert on fake, delaying, prideful coughs as much as he was at navigating the Hawkeye-code-factory. Hawkeye retrieved a crumpled envelope from his pocket. "She has the wrong envelope. She doesn't have enough money. She won't know any better until she gives it to Mrs Lagan."

_She has... she doesn't... she won't... _

So Master Hawkeye had given her the wrong envelope. He was at fault and she would pay with deep embarrassment. It was well known that the Hawkeyes, while not destitute, struggled for their own keep. Only three weeks ago, Riza had had to return a sack of grain as the fee had been short. She was teased around town and bore it sensibly. She was well accustomed to it by now.

It would have been too much to expect a _mea culpa_ from the father – it was his way. And Riza – silent, noble Riza – was much too easy to frame. And for such a small matter, too. What a shame.

The man passed the envelope to Roy, his mouth tight. Well, Roy supposed, at least his master had the moral wherewithal to save her the humiliation of being short of money again.

"Forget your work for now, Roy, and be sure to catch up," his teacher said, distracted. He was so often distracted when he spoke of his daughter.

"Sir."

Hawkeye grunted and made his way through the door. He paused at the threshold. "Roy?"

"Sir?" Roy asked, standing. He squeezed past his desk and took his jacket from the back of his chair.

"No funny business," said Hawkeye before shuffling back to his own study.

The boy laughed quietly into his chest then shook his head. Master Hawkeye had been telling him 'no funny business' since he arrived, yet had never once left his study to see Riza to bed, light the stove in her room or pull to her curtains. If saying 'no funny business' was the beginning and end of fatherhood, then Bethold Hawkeye was a sterling example of paternity. Roy slipped into his jacket and his smile disappeared with the closing of his study door.

The air was dry and pleasant as Roy Mustang made his way into town, half running and half sliding on loose gravel. Still dressed in shorts, his bone-white legs looked like crockery against the vibrant blue of the still-blooming cornflowers. He sucked in a breath and ran with arms outstretched, laughing as the cool air whipped against his face and pushed his fringe from his forehead. He'd forgotten what the outdoors smelled like. His nostrils stung with cool, fragrant air.

It wasn't often Roy was sent on errands. Usually, Master Hawkeye was quite content to let him slave away undisturbed in the study, sometimes for days at a time. Roy slept there and worked there, and only left his little warren of learning to eat and for his ablutions. Arriving at the Hawekeye home some two years previous, Roy Mustang had grown paler as he'd grown more well-read. He'd been a robust boy; not brawny, but burnished with a coppery energy that showed itself in the tan of his slim arms and freckles on his cheeks. He was vain too, though, and as his skin paled he began to celebrate the way his eyes shone beneath his glossy black fringe and how the girls in the town would sneak appraising glances at him when they could. On his visits home, his Aunt and sisters called him sickly and more than once slapped a raw steak down in place of his dinner, joking that he looked like a porcelain pepper shaker. He didn't mind. He laughed with them. He _wanted_ to look driven and studious. He didn't want to look like the farmer boys. He didn't want to look like poor, practical Riza.

He reached the town and found it unusually quiet for the time of day. It was nearing sunset and everyone would be finished work or school by now. Only a few locals dotted the unpaved street and already, shops were winding in their awnings and rolling down their shutters. Roy trotted along the pretty store fronts, so different from Central, keeping an eye out for that floppy great cap Riza insisted on wearing. A city boy, he was still a clear subject of suspicion in the town. His eccentric tutor and his Eastern looks only added to the out-of-towner image. He didn't mind. The danger gave him an edge with the ladies.

Not that he'd gone very far to that end, of course. It had to be understood that while Roy Mustang had a near encyclopedic knowledge of all things _blue_, the practical application of that knowledge was wanting. Just like his alchemy.

There was Lucy Tuckett from the corn mill. They'd kissed and he'd even copped a feel of a delightfully large breast, but in the moment between the deepening kiss and the widening of her legs, fear had taken him. He had a reputation to uphold; namely, that of the panther-like city boy with the knowing cock. When Lucy sank against the floor sacks and tugged her knickers off with one pointed toe, he had realised that he wasn't expert at all! Lovely Lucy, in turned out, was more experienced than him, and he wasn't about to let go of his well-earned mystique so easily. He knew what would happen when his own trousers came off, or what wouldn't. It was an unthinkable embarrassment that he absolutely had to avoid. He'd said a horrible thing, then and he had said it because he was ashamed. "Put your pants on, would you? Have a little self-respect."

He'd come home teary and red-faced, unable to meet Riza's eye. What a nasty thing to say. For God's sake, he'd brought her out to her father's grain store in the first place. He had a fool's pride and a wicked tongue when it came to _that. _When it came to 'it'_._

There were others before Lucy, but she was his last. What followed were phantom girls - fabricated girls from Central, Xing and the next county over. They were safer. They squealed at his masterful skills and swooned at his dry wit and romantic advances. No danger with an imaginary girl. None at all.

Anyway, he had been over the moon when Lucy Tuckett's familt relocated closer to East City. Praise be for growing markets!

From one missing girl to another; where had his master's daughter gone? He checked one shop after the other and Riza Hawkeye was nowhere to be found. He checked the post office, the chemist's and the fruit cart behind the town hall. No sign of her.

He fingered the loose change in his pocket and pondered her whereabouts. She was usually very economical. She'd hardly have gone for an ice-cream or some other treat, and she certainly wouldn't be mingling with the tatty members of Sion Mills' teenage population. With that, Roy decided that ice-cream was a very good idea indeed and jogged back to the general shop to buy one. Well, two, if he had enough money.

Minutes later and Roy was lapping at his ice-cream. His wanderings took him back towards the Eastern edge of town. He passed dark window after dark window, and still there was no sign of Riza. He was wandering past Johnny Ogan's hardware store (a man the local children called 'Johnny Onion' in respect of the man's unique scent) when he spotted her. Or rather, he spotted that bloody big jacket.

She was crushed between two giant tin containers, her back to the street and her cap pulled down so far over her face that the band rested at the crown of her head. She was shaking. Roy licked one ice-cream and then the other while he considered the bent body. Despite his hard work, a stream of melted cream spilled from the cone and onto his knuckles.

"Damn," he muttered.

Through the huge jacket, Riza's back tightened. "Go away!" she cried.

Taking another (strictly preventative) lick of his cone, Roy started towards Riza, his feet crunching on the roughly surfaced road. He mounted the curb and frowned at his shoes. Bright splashes of blood dotted the dusty pavement. "Riza?"

The girl turned sharply on her haunches, and glared at him. Her eyes were wild and red with crying. The bottom of her face was crusted with blood and one eye was swollen shut. She spun back towards the wall. "I said 'go away!'"

Roy laughed, an uncomfortable, squirrel-like chitter he'd had since boyhood and was desperately trying to shake. "I can hardly go away now I've seen you. You look a bloody state... in a very literal sense."

Riza groaned deeply in her throat and two strong hands emerged from the giant sleeves of her coat to tug her cap down further over her face.

"Besides, I've got two ice-creams here and honestly, trying to keep them both from melting all over my shoes is hard work." He toed her coat. "You know how much I can't stand hard work."

With cat-like speed, Riza spun up to face him and snatched one cone from his hand. She flung it at him with all her might. He stumbled back, horrified, and coughed a mess of vanilla from his mouth and nose. He explored the outcome of the assault with his now free hand. It was in his ear and everything.

"Miss Hawkeye!" he squealed, shaking sticky cream from his fingers. It flew to the ground, adding tone to the blood already splashed there. "That's a little inconsiderate, don't you -"

"Oh, shut up! Shut up!" the girl shouted. She struck him on the shin. She had played football before leaving school and had an excellent left foot. "You silly boy!"

"Sil-"

"Just leave me alone!" She pushed him and he stumbled backwards onto the road, utterly flummoxed. Riza's coat swung like a drunken pendulum as she threw her arms this way and that. "Leave me alone! Leave me alone!"

A few people farther down the street looked on sadly before going on their way.

Roy grunted, trying to dislodge ice-cream from his ear like a dog shaking off water. He'd tried to be light. Lightness was all he knew with Riza, but as the girl bent at the waist and began sobbing again, he realised how lost he was. She fell to her knees and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. "Go, go," she continued to mutter.

"My God, Riza. I'm so-"

"Go!" she moaned, drawing the word out like a sad dog's howl. She hiccoughed then, and snatched for breath. She was starting to hyperventilate.

Roy, wearing his ice-cream like a beard, didn't have one single idea what to do or say. His master's daughter was inconsolable at his feet and there he was standing dumbly with one un-eaten - or un-thrown - ice-cream in his hand.

He tossed the cone aside and crouched beside Riza. She turned sharply from him. He chuckled and coaxed, but every time he situated himself in front of her, she turned away. All the time, that stupid cap was covering half of her face. He really hated that cap.

As she turned again, he snatched it from her head and sent it flying after the discarded ice-cream cone.

"You!" she screamed and lunged at him, wild with upset.

Lacking courage somewhat, Roy screamed as she flew at him, her fists thumping his shoulders and chest. He tried to catch her, shouting her name, but she was too fast and shockingly strong. Conscious that one of them - most likely him - was bound to lose an eye sooner or later, he did the only sensible thing he could.

"Right!" he said resolutely, falling into a crouch. In one swift but decidedly ungraceful movement he took her by the waist and charged forwards, propping her up on his shoulder in an undignified fireman's lift.

Her prior rage intensified to the point where she was senseless with anger. She was no longer capable of forming words, just a string of howls and squeals that made Roy feel like he was taking a cat to the butcher rather than an angry girl home. Face after blurry face rushed past the pair as Roy charged down the street with her hefted on his skinny shoulder. All the while, she struck him around the back and head, and kicked at his thighs and knees. One particularly advantageous strike of hers met his softer regions and had him retching momentarily by the side of the road while his load yelled victoriously on her perch.

When they were clear of the town, Roy turned off the main road and started up an overgrown cart trail. He didn't quite know what he was going to do when he reached Tysoe's Fields, but he knew one thing at least: if he was going to be beaten up by a girl almost two years his junior, then it was going to happen where no one could see.

When he finally reached the gate, Roy took a deep breath and staggered up onto the sty. It was just as he was swinging his leg over it that Riza jammed her own leg between his knees. They fell to the ground in a heap of limbs, one face red with old blood, the other white with ice-cream. Riza sprang to her feet like a deer and was off, racing through grass that was high enough to reach her armpits.

"Oh, piss," said Roy and struggled to his feet.

The grass whipped his bare legs as he tore after her. She was an excellent sprinter, darting this way and that, minnow-fast and sure. Roy stumbled a few times and once fell bodily when his foot caught a knot of thick grass. Still though, he had height on his side and after some long, hard minutes, he finally gained on her. She screamed back at him and he screamed at her; two teenagers, angry and confused like any teenager anywhere.

Roy made a grab for her and caught her by the sleeve of her jacket. In a moment she had slipped out of it, leaving him with nothing but the imitation potato sack he detested as much as he did her stupid cap. He swore and ducked his head, his lungs burning with exertion. At last, he was close enough to risk tripping over her racing feet. He opened his arms wide and took her in one swipe, dragging her down with him into the mess of grass, cornflowers and falling evening damp.

She squirmed under his weight and kicked out at him. Deeply, deeply troubled now the adrenalin was seeping from him, he fought to restrain her. Her nose had started bleeding again and her teeth were red with it. Her right eye was a disaster zone and he saw now that an earring had been torn loose too.

"Riza!" he cried, distressed. "Riza! Miss Hawkeye! Please!"

"Get off! Get off! Get off me or I'll tell-"

"Who?!" Roy screamed back at her. "Who?!" She wriggled under him, her one eye fierce and wary.

"Who?! Tell your father? You'd be better off writing him a bloody letter! Or better yet, a book! There'd be some chance of his opening it then!"

She stilled completely while her breath rattled noisily in the back of her throat.

Roy huffed and settled himself back on his behind so that he was sitting on her shins. He bent his forehead to wipe it on the sleeve of his jacket. His sweaty skin came away covered in burrs and torn grass.

He shook her by the arms weakly. "Who?!" he asked, his voice hoarse. "Who are you going to tell if not me?"

Her lip trembled. Her anger sank into something darker; a lonely, wronged throb of emotion.

"Tell... tell me," Roy pleaded. "We tell each other things, don't we? Why... what happened to you?"

The girl sobbed as she lay pinned and unable to move. She couldn't even hide her face. "They said..." Her breath hitched in her chest.

Roy shook her again, gently this time. "Who said?"

"Everyone! Everyone from the whole cruddy town! Everyone we know!" Seeing he hadn't understood, she sobbed again. "Michael Yurly and the others. All the boys and girls you meet at the weekend." She shook her head and breathed deeply. Roy felt her chest expand against his thumbs. "Eve- everyone."

The alchemist's apprentice chanced removing one hand, and reached into his pocket for his handkerchief. He was about to spit on it, but thought better at the last moment. "Here," he said and held it to her mouth. She spat like a farmer into the clean cotton. He started wiping at the blood around her nose. "About you? Your father? What did they say, Riza? I've never seen you like this." He shrugged and invited another dose of spit. "I've never seen anyone like this. Human or animal."

She laughed a little at that. Roy was inexplicably pleased at the sound and felt himself grow red under his beard of sticky ice-cream.

"What did they say?" he repeated. He continued his ministrations, watching her carefully. Riza shook her head and bit her lip.

He sighed and unfurled the hanky. He swung his arm out and slapped her lightly on the cheek with it. "I'll have you know, that in Xing there are fourteen ways to torture someone using only a wet cloth." He rolled his eyes and pursed his lips. "Well, fourteen ways to torture a man. I'm sure the number drops a little for women."

"Stronger pain threshold," murmured Riza.

"Less danglies," Roy corrected.

The girl turned crimson.

Roy licked his thumb and smoothed away the blood at her earlobe. It looked like it was just a scratch. Thank God for small mercies, he thought. There was so much blood, anyone would have thought she lost the whole ear.

Deft fingers stopped his wrist. He glanced down but she wasn't looking at him. She was looking past him, back towards the town.

"It was about you," she whispered.

Roy frowned and resumed work on her cheek. Once again, she stopped him with those strong fingers of hers, rough with calluses. She'd started tearing up again.

"They said the most wicked things about you." She shook her head and breathed deeply through her nose, a childish way to block the tears. "The most... wicked... nasty things. Where you're from... what you look like..." Her chest expanded grandly with another huge sob. "About you and my father. Nasty, horrible things."

Roy was aghast. About him? "Riza," he began, dropping the handkerchief at his side. He took her face in his hands. She looked mournfully back at him, her face a state, her nose running and her one good eye swollen with tears. "Riza... did you..."

She shook her head roughly.

"Were you defending me? Did you say something to them? Did they do this?"

Crying still, the girl continued to turn her head from side to side then finally, overcome, she nodded.

"You...," Roy paused, hands halfway to her shoulders. "You... what?" he muttered. He really didn't know _what_ Riza Hawkeye was. There were plenty of things she wasn't. She was no Lucy Tuckett, and she certainly wasn't like any other girl in town. She probably wasn't like any other girl in Amestris or the whole world. She was an anomaly. She was something that could only have come from _that _house and from _that _father. She was like a meteor in a field of stones. "You idiot," he said, settling at last on something vaguely appropriate for the occasion. "Come here." At that he snatched her up and into a fierce hug. Her mouth rested against his neck and her legs still poked out from under his backside. His skinny, pale appendages shot out in the opposite direction. If anyone could see them through the thick grass, they would have looked like some bizarre insect crushed on a windshield.

"Riza," he whispered. "Miss Hawkeye... you don't have to defend me. Those people... they're idiots. Dinosaurs. Fossils. They don't know anything about me." He pulled her closer. Without her jacket now, she'd started shivering. "You don't have to defend me," he repeated.

"I do," she whispered back, her wet breath warming the space behind his ear. He wondered if he smelled like ice-cream. The girl continued in a hushed voice, fragile with upset. "I do because if I don't, who will?" He felt her tiny smile against his neck. "Who? My father?" She stopped and caught her breath. "Yours?"

Roy frowned. "You know my-"

"You don't have anybody to stick up for you, just like I don't have anybody to stick up for me. So you _do_ need defending, Mr. Mustang. Because nobody else is going to do it. Only me."

He had no response, no obvious answer to such a statement. He'd never considered both of them a pair. But now, twined together in the tall grass, it made perfect sense. Except-

"And what about _me_? Can't I defend myself?"

She laughed. She laughed! He pushed her back by the shoulders. She looked at him, full-sure that he was joking and seeing that he wasn't, she laughed even harder. She flung her arms around his neck and laughed into his shoulder.

Pouting, Roy prodded her back with one finger. "It's not- hey! It's not _that_ funny! I happen to be very handy with a yard brush."

She laughed harder still. He pushed her sideways into the thick grass, wincing as her hair, which had stuck to his cream-caked cheek, pulled away. She landed with a light _Oof! _And seconds later, dragged him down with one mean hook of the arm.

"See?" she cried, delighted at besting him so easily.

Roy rubbed the back of his neck and pulled a seedpod from his mouth. "Show down!" he decreed. "The Lonely Lad versus the Drab Daughter!"

"Drab?" the girl complained, and to her credit, sporting a black eye and bloody nose, she looked anything but drab.

"There _is_ the cap," reasoned Roy.

Her hands flew to her bare head. "My cap!"

Roy jumped to his feet and reached down, mussing her hair. "It's in a better pla-" he never did get to finish his sentence as Riza leapt to her feet and darted for him.

She gave chase, panting and full of joy as she pursued him through the harvest-full grass. Mist cooled their faces and made their chests burn with a youthful flame that neither child had ever known before that moment. When Roy finally surrendered, they fell back together into the safe net of thick, damp grass. He kissed her. She pulled back and looked at him with her battered face, one brown eye dancing in confusion. In the next second, she fell against him and they tumbled through the long grass. She was glorious, alive, wounded and bruised. With the errand money forgotten in his pocket, Roy Mustang explored and worshipped every inch of his strange, suffering companion. Riza Hawkeye, he discovered, was as fine a thing as he had ever known

Back in his study, Master Hawkeye would be working on oblivious, and more, uncaring, for hadn't he already instructed his apprentice that there should be 'no funny business'? The supplies could wait until the morning and Riza's crisply made bed would remain untouched. That night, they slept together there. Both of them unsure and unpracticed, they drew from each other's uncertainty. Roy and Riza hadn't known it until that moment in the fields, dusk falling on them like rain, how together they were in their absolute aloneness.

* * *

_Central City, 21st November 1915._

_Shame. The last they saw. A pair of blackened dog tags._

The day had arrived at last. Bormann made sure Ed was present at every possible moment of the dismantling of Roy Mustang. Ed was there when they woke the Colonel, slipping a sedative into his arm before he'd even managed to force his eyes open. Loose and uncoordinated, they'd led the man to a large, tiled space where they stripped him of everything and showered him thoroughly from a distance with a hose. Ed shrank when the Colonel looked his way with large, confused eyes, and he couldn't bare to see how he slid on the wet floor, unbalanced by his new arm. They spilled white powder on him from above, as though he were infested- as though all that _goodness _in him might infect them too. It was all part of the show, Ed knew. It was all part of the process of breaking a hero into pieces. But still, the boy watched on, horrified by everything: the animal howls, the slight frame, the ruined body and all. How could he not watch- when this would be the last they saw of each other?

Now, in the operating room it was just the two of them. Bormann was outside the small theatre, talking with the other alchemists. Roy Mustang – his commander – was strapped down to a porcelain table, horribly vulnerable, naked but for a towel. He shivered the bone-deep shiver of the condemned, though his face was fixed with an expression too sophisticated for one word alone. Strength, nobility, martyrdom, meaning, _aloofness_ even; the sublime face of someone who believed they were supposed to be punished somehow. Saintly, venerable knowing...

The bastard.

"Not at the price of my men, Edward," the Colonel said suddenly. His voice was thick, full of exhaustion and drugs. His black, sharp eyes canted upward and struck the boy like a fist. "I know what you're thinking. I'm... I'm not a fatalist. Wouldn't have chosen this. Not at the cost of my people."

Edward adjusted a strap on the man's wrist and huffed. "You're high."

Smiling, Mustang shifted his weight as best he could and spoke through an amused grunt. "And thank goodness for that."

Ed didn't smile. Couldn't.

"Have you ever heard of Ada Eichmann, Ed?"

Edward shook his head. His eyes met Bormann's through the glass and the secretary signalled that he should prime the array. Edward gave a petulant thumbs up in return. Mustang tugged at the boy's sleeve with his fingers. The action was so unnervingly boyish, so unlike Mustang. Mustang didn't _tug. _He demanded... he compelled. Edward wanted to flee, to die- anything to escape that room and the half-man, near-saint on the porcelain slab. Pious, vulnerable, accepting.

"He was an Amestrian scientist during the Tennet War- not in our field, not an alchemist. He was a fantastic mind, though. Efficient... imaginative. A real servant of Amestris. He would do anything for the country he loved."

Edward stopped fidgeting with his notes. He didn't want this conversation to go where it was so clearly going. Edward was _not_ accepting. He didn't welcome eternity the way Mustang did. And he _couldn't _give it to Mustang. He _couldn't. _He wasn't Hawkeye... wasn't any of them. He was just Fullmetal, a boy. For once in his life, he yearned for Mustang to speak to him like a child. He just couldn't give Mustang the death that he so dearly wanted.

Mustang continued in his same easy tone. "He was loyal, like I was loyal." Their eyes locked, then disengaged. Mustang went on. "He never once thought to question whether anything he was doing was morally correct. It never occurred to him – he was only interested in the science of it and the love of his homeland. He was so very, very efficient, Edward."

Edward shook his head. "I told you. I haven't decided." But he had. He _had_ decided and all day he carried the lie in his heart. He would allow Mustang hope, right until the last. Because after that, the Colonel wouldn't know any better. It turned out that Ed was just that kind of coward.

Mustang continued in his strange, drugged lilt. "You have no idea... what I am. What kind of horrors I've committed. You have _no-_"

A scalpel embedded itself in the opposite wall. "I haven't decided, alright!?"

Shocked, the men on the other side of the window, including Bormann, looked up. Bormann's eyes cut through the glass and straight into Ed's frightened soul. It was a warning in no uncertain terms. Still, Mustang talked and still his face remained untouched by the emotion that thrummed through the rest of his body in wave after wave of trembling. Ed could see clearly the goosebumps on the man's arms and legs.

"I often thought which of us would be the first to go. Now I have my answer."

That gave Ed pause. He collected himself, just. He replaced the scalpel on the ransacked tray and spoke to Mustang without meeting his eye. "You mean the Lieutenant?"

Mustang closed his eyes. Like a southern sunset, composure dropped from his face suddenly. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat and the knuckles of his right hand shone like the porcelain beneath him. "Yes," he said.

Ed supposed he would never know what the Colonel meant; whether he believed he would be the first of them to be deleted from the world.

Both men gasped as a knock came at the window. Bormann stood there smiling and held up a finger. One minute.

"Edward," Mustang said, and tugged at the boy's sleeve again. His eyes were alight with desperation now. It cut through the drugs and through all that devastating fear and drove right into the centre of the Fullmetal Alchemist. "When this is over, leave. Leave Amestris. Go to Xing... not Drachma. Not Aerugo. Go East, far away from Amestris. You and Al both. They'll try to detain you. Kill if you have to. If it means getting out. Consider it an order. You're next, Fullmetal."

Ed's eyes flitted from the window to his commander. "Mustang-" he whispered.

"You're next, Edward. Whether you kill me today or not. You aren't safe. You nor Hughes. Nobody."

"I-"

"Edward! Think of Al," the Colonel whispered harshly, his expression indignant almost. As if Ed could sacrifice the wellbeing of his brother out of fear or misguided loyalty. But on that point, the Colonel had assumed wrong. Waking that morning, knowing what lay ahead of him, Ed had no illusions that his life in Amestris could continue. He knew it was all over now. The game had probably been up before he'd even set foot in the hospital for the first time.

"Colonel," he said, squeezing the man's good arm. "I know. I know. We're going to. Th-"

"Boys!" Bormann entered the room, his trademark smart suit covered by an ill-fitting lab coat. "Together again. Inseparable, you two." He smiled at Edward, then at the Colonel. "Are we ready to go, Edward?"

Ed said nothing. He nodded, and took a surgical marker from the tray. Mustang flinched when the cool tip touched his shaved head. Ed murmured an apology and began drawing the array.

"What about you, Colonel? Ready for 'the next great mission?'" Bormann asked, tapping one ringed finger off the automail arm. The noise bounced happily off the cool theatre tiles. "You look fit for the part. You look like a dead man already. This'll be an improvement! You won't even know what you're missing." His smiled deepened. "I'm looking forward to our drink."

Bormann looked at Edward, his eyebrows asking: are you ready? Edward responded with a terse, "Almost."

The secretary continued in his light, airy manner, circling the table and inspecting Mustang like a prize insect pinned behind glass. "It is rather a shame, though - on the point of our tipple together. My favourite bar- sorry. Edward?"

Ed froze and took a deep breath. He answered, louder this time, with an aching jaw. "I said almost. I'm not about to make a mistake."

Bormann's mouth bent down in a wounded upturned 'U' before he faced Mustang again. "Anyway, yes." He clapped his hands, frowning more theatrically now. "My favourite bar isn't available any longer. Tch, pity."

Mustang scowled. "What are you talking about?"

Edward rose from where he was crouched. The array was finished. It marked the crown of Mustang's head like a brand. "Okay," he said. His hand lay on Mustang's shoulder. He squeezed it hard enough to hurt.

Bormann rubbed his hands together. "Fantastic! When I give the signal, Edward, please commence."

Edward sighed. "What signal?"

"What are you talking about?!" Mustang spat, demand thundering from the back of his throat. He wasn't tugging on people's sleeves any longer.

The secretary looked down at the damned Colonel. "I believe you were a fan of the establishment too, Colonel." He looked at Edward. "Okay, Edward."

"I'm sorry, Colonel," Ed said, his heart breaking in his chest. His lungs strained inside his ribs and his stomach plummeted with the betrayal. "I can't do it. I can't give you what you want. I'm sorry."

"Edward, wait!" cried Mustang. "Wait-"

"I'm sorry," said Ed, bringing his hands together. The array flashed before him, a perfect match to the one drawn on Mustang's scalp.

"Madame Christmas's," Bormann said with a sing-song. He stood at the bottom of the slab and leant forward, curling his long fingers around the cool lip. "A gas explosion apparently," he said.

"Edward!" Mustang was frantic now, pulling against his restraints. "No!"

"_Christmas's_... Such a festive name, too. Shame."

"You bastard!" the Colonel bucked where he lay. His head connected with the hard surface but it didn't register at all. He screamed, totally unable to move or fight. Unable to die because Ed wouldn't give it to him. "Edward, Edward wait... Goddamnit!"

Energy pulled at the boy's hands and they were wrenched against the colonel's scalp.

"Everyone dead, so I hear," Bormann lamented. "A few less whores in our city, at least."

"No-!" screamed the Colonel, but the thought was erased the second it left his mouth.

It felt to Ed like falling into an uncovered well and plunging into the freezing waters of an unknown, frightening world. Thoughts spilled through him. Wave after wave of them tumbled through and round and over Ed. He saw everything. Knew everything. Every moment from every angle. Roy Mustang, the history of a human being, lay open before him.

There was a childhood, a dead father, a cold house, countless drill sergeants, a war, a breakdown, nameless women, new cars, lost keys, lost battles, lost men, promotions, celebrations, and everything in between.

There was Havoc, grieving in Mustang's arms.

There, Breda, drunk and love lorn. Intelligent as only Breda was intelligent.

There, Falman, fastidious as usual but the most solid, immovable man on the planet.

There, Fuery, nervous but brilliant.

Then Hughes. Bright, dazzling Hughes and all the hurt that came with him, in the end.

Ed felt compelled to reach for his chest when a great hollowness opened up where his heart was. Then her, Hawkeye. Hawkeye as a child, drowning in a shapeless coat and an old-style cap. Hawkeye as an adult, with those very special, clever eyes of hers. Seeing her as Mustang saw her, Ed loved her too. He never knew love until he saw Hawkeye through Mustang's eyes and it hurt him. His body rang with the frightening intensity of the non-couple; the anti-lovers. He stumbled inside his commander's head; felt like he might be consumed by the alchemy, the will, the soul.

Then saw her pregnant and felt Mustang's fear and regret, but excitement too. He had the strangest sensation that they were both weeping, man and boy, inside and outside. Throughout, the feeling followed him that _she _was watching. In a moment though, it too was gone as Ed was thrown forward by the array.

Tolven. Dark, wet, set upon by nature. Mustang _knew. _He _knew_ he was part of something greater. Paranoia laid its cloying weight on Ed's heart and a moment later, disappeared – replaced by a bold 'Nothing'. As the array sped on, there was more Nothing than there was Something, but still the thoughts came.

A hulking mass, shrouded in rain.

"_Get her off me!"_

A lowering pressure in the centre of the mine-ridden field.

"_Please!"_

Aerugonian soldiers pulled inward by a ferocious wind.

"_Someone!"_

Exploding mines; men and horses fountaining upwards; organs spewed like streamers.

"_Take her from me!"_

A barricade of fire. A crazed vacuum, plucking men from their saddles and exploding them in the sky.

"_Someone take her from me!"_

A wave of white hot death, hot enough to melt mud-buried boulders. Hot enough to turn people to dust, despite the rain. Mud that sucked disintegrated bones into its warm wetness. An entire battalion, destroyed in minutes.

"_This woman is with child! With my child!"_

A lone soldier planting dogtags like seeds.

"_Please."_

A half-buried soldier. Dark skin and green eyes. How could she have survived when everyone else had been turned to cinder? Her eyes shone beautifully and for a moment, he didn't notice her missing legs. Her missing pelvis and arm. How could he have let her live... like this? He didn't notice the click of the pin and the tumbling, acorn-round grenade until it was too late.

There was a flash, and white noise. Green eyes. Mud everywhere. The flash.

Impact.

An empty field.

White. Noise.

OoO

When Ed came to, he was no longer in the theatre. They'd removed him to a private hospital suite. Ed breathed sharply and folded his arms around himself. It was the same suite that Mustang had occupied. The Colonel was right. It was clear he was next.

Bormann came to his room some time after sunset. He was ecstatic. The procedure had been a success. Ed had been warned that there was to be deviation from the plan, that no stone should remain unturned within Mustang's memory. They were right to suspect him: Ed had long considered planting a trapdoor of sorts in the Colonel's mind. Though when Bormann's allusions started orbiting Al and the Rockbells, Ed knew that he was cornered. They had him, just as they had Mustang: because they were _good. _Because they grew close to people and cared for people. So long as Ed was human, he would always be weak; liable to be held at ransom at any moment for the lives of those he loved. It truly took a monster to kill a monster- the hero stories of his youth were lies. Valour was a dream.

The other alchemists swept in after Ed to check that everything was as it should be: that all that remained of Roy Mustang were those attributes most necessary to the State. Bormann congratulated Ed on his thoroughness. Edward tried to spit at him, but he found his mouth was too dry.

After Bormann left, Ed lay spent on the hard mattress. His back ached, his head throbbed and his heart felt leaden in his breast. Mustang in those final moments: what had happened? What further evil had Bormann committed? And what was the extent of Ed's own complicity? That lie- saying that he hadn't decided, stringing Mustang along until the end. He offered the man some hope of release through death, and now the altered Colonel wouldn't even know any better. He would remember how to shave, where he kept his keys and how to tie his shoelaces, but anything, _anything_, that made him Mustang was gone forever. He wouldn't even know if he liked olives or not, or what his favourite radio programme was.

Stretching, Ed hooked his fingers under the mattress and sighed. There was one final thing he could do for Roy Mustang. It might come too late for the Colonel, but it was the right thing and it was the only thing.

He _would_ go to Xing, together with Al and with Winry too, but before he did, he would show Bormann how thorough he really was. For he knew something no-one else in Central knew, not even Mustang.

The team lived. Somewhere in his broken mind, Mustang had known, after all.

Ed pulled his hands from the mattress and jumped when something shifted to his right. The sound of light metal filled the otherwise silent room. Rolling onto his right shoulder, Ed looked for the source of the noise. His eyes fell on the floor. There lay a pair of blackened dog tags.

* * *

Thankee kindly.

Next update shouldn't be too far. Scared.


	12. Here Dead We Lie

_**We'll just start:**_

* * *

_Tolven, 26th November 1915_

_Where they had failed. One name on the cenotaph. A promise to keep._

Sunlight or no, the sixty-five soldiers trapped within the walls of the Sugar Loaf managed to keep track of each torturously passing hour. They marked days on the wall like crazed prisoners from novels, monitoring the passing time by the rising and falling of the cave pools within. Inside the Sugar Loaf, they had first waited, primed and ready, for the return of their commander, but when he didn't come back, the mood splintered into a thousand shards of every possible emotion. Despair, hope, bravery, anger, inspiration- every conceivable feeling stole into the hearts of the entombed troops. Then the explosives failed them and the radio remained broken and silent. A living nightmare.

They first presumed him dead. That was the professional thing to do, and yet-

The conviction that Mustang lived started with Hawkeye. It radiated out from her; an exploding star of faith and resolve. Nobody tried to reason with her (nobody was 'man' enough). Some put it down to the pregnancy and others to the indivisible nature of their relationship. There came a morning though when Havoc, stooped over one of many tasteless ration tins, was struck by a strange sensation. It was the same feeling he got when he left his gas on at home or forgot his car keys. With that quiet epiphany, he suddenly understood it. Somehow, he _knew_ that Mustang had not abandoned them; that he lived. The rest of the team followed soon after and before long, if questioned, over half the troop would have sworn blind that Mustang was alive. They speculated on where he was, whether he had been 'taken' or 'injured'. They even started a sweepstake, laughing though their bodies trembled with the deep fear of being left behind. Once or twice, younger soldiers came to Hawkeye to assure her that he was 'out there somewhere'. Breda joked, of course. "That's what you call a 'cult of personality.'" He'd said, gesturing to himself with a half-eaten pickle. He spoke through chewing. "And you know whose department Mustang's PRis. You can thank me later."

There was the occasional, inevitable fight, but nothing too serious. There were of course moments of true despair: moments when a man's pistol turned mutinous and rose up against its owner. There were more than a few temples or chins blackened with munitions grease. In the end though, reason won out- the only reason they had: that someone was coming for them. Suicide became unthinkable after the first few weeks. To kill oneself was a supreme act of selfishness inside the Sugar Loaf. For one, where would they stash the body? That became the running joke and it honest to God saved men's lives.

The command fell into their roles eventually, but not without some jostling. It was as difficult as it sounds; managing nearly seventy young men in a confined space. Havoc and Breda saw to the smaller things: 'micro-nannying' as the redhead called it. Hawkeye took command as the most senior officer. At first, the men regarded their substitute commander with cool suspicion. It generated a little controversy in their ranks. Was she an officer or a mistress? Were they in love, she and Mustang, or was this some kind of salacious bargain between promotion-hungry officers? Havoc networked using carton after carton of cigarettes as leverage, while Breda was more direct: "Listen to her or I'll kill you. Ha, ha – just kidding. Here, have a smoke." She was a quiet voice in the cave and relied on the occasional signal boost from her team, but she was firm and she was clever. What more could a poor soldier ask for?

Hawkeye was over thirteen weeks pregnant when they went into the cave. Some might justifiably see this as a weakness, as something dangerous even: for what would they do if _the _time came? But inside that cave of the huddled hopeful, a kind of assumption took place. After weeks of convincing the men, Hawkeye was raised from a common, distant commander to an idol of sorts. What grew in her belly was what grew in each man's heart: a hope, a new life. _Out there._

Men who'd never said a kind word in their lives laid down half their rations daily to her, asked her how she felt, gave their jackets up for her comfort. They were _transformed. _And so it went – for weeks. Just like a training exercise; soldiers surviving from one day to the next.

Then, eight weeks after that awful, impossible day, the black wall cracked and opened like a fruit. In the upside-down V of light stood a silhouette and the men at once cheered, "Mustang!" as they staggered from their makeshift seats. In the next instant though, a breeze pushed a ponytail from hiding and their hopes were dashed. He hadn't come after all, their lost, loved commander.

The men wept as they stumbled forward into the sun. They left rations, coats – guns even! - inside so that the sunlight might spill onto their faces all the sooner. Hawkeye, now twenty-one weeks pregnant and so tired her veins shone bright blue beneath her eyes, marched to where Ed stood, Al and Winry close behind him.

She said, "He's dead," and Ed answered, "No, not dead." Then, just as a fragile hope lighted in her eyes, he added, "Hawkeye, I'm so sorry."

As the men readied their return to civilisation, to fresh food and fresh air, Ed told Hawkeye everything. It was a confession. He included every little evil and betrayal of his own, right to the very last, when he activated the array to save himself from hearing Mustang's growing despair. Behind him, Al and Winry hung their heads.

Ed told them there was nothing to be done, alchemically speaking. When he began, the five faces of Mustang's team were lit with elation: not dead! But it was so much worse, wasn't it? Havoc fingered an empty cigarette packet as he was told, eventually tossing it away. The loss was very sudden, and in their minds, each of the team began packing away their hopes for a new, better nation. It was too early to feel afraid, but they knew it would come soon. Who amongst them would take his place? Who amongst them could? Breda had long been discussed as a fitting deputy, but Breda had trouble with deceit and fakery and all the nasty, shitty stuff Mustang had to do. All the goodness Mustang sacrificed of himself, just for a bearable tomorrow. The procedure Ed talked about, they realised, was a greater cruelty than death could ever be. Mustang without his past, his drive, his _faults_ wasn't Mustang at all. He was just an empty smoke carton.

At the foot of the Sugar Loaf, Lieutenant Hawkeye mourned. It was a quiet affair. She barely made a sound. On her knees, fingers sinking into the yielding earth, she wept silently, her face hidden by the fall of her grease-matted hair. It broke the hearts of the men who had survived weeks of containment, weeks of not knowing if they would live or die. Impossibly, they had made it and he had not. It turned out to be a sacrifice despite what Mustang said. He promised he would come back to them. He promised he would come back to her. Fate had made a liar of him.

Ed, Al and Winry were en route to Xing. Nobody doubted the risk Bormann posed to Ed now. His life and the lives of his loved ones were at stake and leaving the country was the only way ensure their safety. The liberated soldiers were hardly safe themselves. Wasn't it easier now for the regime to underwrite their deaths and make them disappear? They were already dead in the eyes of city hall. Their families had been informed, the Last Post played and the honours given. Why risk a scandal when Bradley could just make the already 'dead' troops disappear? Ed had been a clever boy though, and to dissuade the military from doing what the Aerugonians and the Sugar Loaf had failed to do, he had alerted the press to the story. It was only matter of time before they arrived, documenting that the Tolven command lived and in turn, actually saving their lives – for now.

"You should go," said Hawkeye. The strengthening breeze peeled the damp hair from her cheek. Her matted blonde mane blew behind her, and she looked every inch a ruined Goddess; a lost relic.

"Yes," said Ed. Behind him, Winry sucked in a fortifying breath. All eyes turned to her and she ducked her head behind the high collar of her coat. Ed shivered, eyes locked on her prone form. "It was the right choice, the three of us leaving."

"She should have come," whispered Winry. This time, all eyes drifted from her in embarrassed sentiment.

"Granny Pinako," Ed explained. "She didn't want to come. Kicked us out, eventually." He chuckled weakly.

"Deeper roots," said Hawkeye, and everyone nodded.

It was time to move on; all of them. It was time for Ed, Al and Winry to leave Amestris, perhaps for good. Time for the soldiers to return to their homes, sad yet somehow hopeful despite the Colonel's fate. Maybe because of it; survival can do that to people.

The trio left after many awkward, fraught attempts to say 'good bye'. Hawkeye watched them as they grew smaller and smaller against the darkening Eastern sky. She thought of another trio: herself, Hughes and Mustang, and wished youth success where her generation had failed so terribly.

It was time for Mustang's team to answer the question they never wanted to have to answer: what now? The press were on their way. They would arrive at any moment, and so once again, the men found themselves awaiting their fate at the foot of the Sugar Loaf. While the other men lay around the open field like exhausted greyhounds, Mustang's team peeled away to talk about their new, frightening futures. The situation was as bad as any nightmare. Everyone wanted to wake up; to be back in their cramped, cheerful office. Fuery cried quietly throughout, comforted by a grave-faced Breda. At last, though, it was settled.

They could see the lights of approaching cars in the distance by the time they made their plan. Fuery, Falman and Breda would return with the other men. Havoc would meet the press before deserting. It was a sensible thing for him to go on the run; he had the means and the country-wit the others lacked. Then there was Hawkeye, twenty-one weeks pregnant and missing the Colonel like anybody else might miss their heart or head. It was settled, communicated to the other men who accepted the burden of the lie with the grace and loyalty they had shown when inside the Sugar Loaf. 'Isn't it obvious?' they would tell the press. 'She followed him onto the field. Hers is the one name you can keep on the cenotaph.'

Picking at the wool of his impressive beard, Havoc narrowed his eyes at Hawkeye. "You sure?"

She nodded.

"Cos you're mighty pregnant, Hawkeye. What if something happens?"

She raised her eyebrows at him, looking for the world like Mustang in that moment. He got it: _something_ had already happened.

"I'll wait until the press cars go and take one of our own jeeps North. I should be in Central before long."

Breda coughed, tightening his grip on Fuery's shoulders. "And you're dead set on Central? We could get you something set up out East. Join Ed in Xing even."

She shook her head, fingers straying to her pocket. The stiff air of Autumn, tempered as it was in the South, washed between the five of them and seemed to bring with it a wounding finality. Each of the team shrank inside their uniforms, muscles bunching against the cold. Their future that once burnt arduous and heroic now hung on the wind like the sparks of spent fireworks. Their king had been captured. There was nothing left to do but to lay down the pieces and pack away the chess set. Hawkeye breathed deeply, savouring the sting of fresh air in her lungs. Havoc's blue eyes glinted with near-despair. She squeezed his arm, then his shoulder. "No," she said quietly. "It has to be Central." In her damp pocket, her fingers closed around her own burnt dog tags. A parting gift from Ed. "I have a promise to keep."

* * *

_25__th__ February 1916, Central City_

_Undignified. Please, no. A fond, familiar wink._

It was six o'clock and very soon, the sun would set on Central City. The weather was bitingly cold; the Winter reluctant to surrender to the Spring. Each cast-iron railing and lamppost wore ice like lace, and the sky was so blue it was almost blinding. Trolley cars slipped along the Milngavie Line and into the affluent northern city districts. There, Central's elite spilled from each packed car and onto the streets; all dressed in furs and hats, mufflers and thick woollen gloves. They huddled together against the stinging cold and giggled, happy that another day was over. Their high-ceilinged, well lit homes awaited them. They would settle into their broad, fashionable sofas and drink deeply from their glasses of wine or whiskey. A cold day inspired one to be homely, to respect the simple safety of those four immovable walls. If one was inclined to be lazy, there was no guilt on a cold day. The chill invited an evening spent by the fire, cheeks hot and dry, body wrapped in thick blankets.

Watching the happy crowds, Riza Hawkeye sat alone in a plain little cafe. It had no more than five tables and one solitary waitress stood behind the high counter-top, cleaning cutlery and listening to the radio. Hawkeye put a hand to her belly and felt the little one inside shift. It wasn't quite as mobile as it used to be, given its size. She was at thirty-four weeks now; her eighth month. There wasn't much room for the baby, but it continued to make itself known regardless, thumping her when it could manage it. It would be almost fully formed now. All ears and fingers and toes would be accounted for. It looked like him, she knew. She closed her eyes and pulled in a breath full of lavender mist from her tea. Sometimes she saw them together: Mustang, a father, with the infant laid against his shoulder, his back turned to her. Opening her eyes, she pushed the thought far from her mind. She always did at that point in her sad fantasy; just when she thought he might turn around.

She arrived in Central just three weeks before. It was changed beyond believing. The buildings were the same. The street names were the same. The grumpy tram conductors and friendly flower girls were the same. The cafes, theatres and little pubs she had known so well were all the same, but for one: Madame Christmas's. Mustang woke up to a world where he knew no one save the Fuhrer. Hawkeye returned to a world where everyone she knew was gone. Madame Christmas's establishment was a blackened cavity. The wreckage had been looted and not so much as a teaspoon remained. Armstrong had disappeared. Fuery and Falman had been reassigned. Havoc was in hiding. Ed, Al and Winry were in Xing by now, just in time for the Xingese New Year. Breda, after his brief return to the service had disappeared also. It was devastating news until on coming home one day, Hawkeye found a red lantern hung above the door of her cheap hotel room. It was _just _that colour of red. She knew he was safe. He'd 'got out' - gone after the boys in Xing, she presumed. Maybe he'd come back one day to pick up where Mustang had left off.

Then there was Hughes. Any enquiry she made turned up the same thing: he'd gone to the country to live the family life. Sifting through the rubble of her life she found only two things worth keeping: a judgement and a promise. Uncurling her fingers from the handle of her cup, she opened her left hand. This was her answering hand, the judgement – the echo. This was Bormann's hand, full of hate and blame. It shook now, but it would be steady enough when the time came.

It was here inside this cafe that she waited for Bormann. She waited every evening for twelve evenings, hoping that one day the news on the radio would change. These days, the news was always the same: Aerugo. As soon as Ed told her what had happened to the Colonel, a theory bloomed in her mind; a kaleidoscope of answers, coming one after the other. They wanted him all along. The Colonel wasn't the answer to the Tolven question – he was the answer to the _Aerugo q_uestion. It was just one week ago that her fears were confirmed. In that little cafe, as the waitress tutted and polished the knives and spoons, the radio confirmed the Hawkeye's fears:

_Declaration of War communicated to Aerugonian Parliament. No response forthcoming. In the interest of our nation, our Rightful Fuhrer commands we take action and assert out borders. Flame Alchemist, Colonel Roy Mustang will lead forces March 1__st__ after a generous period of clemency during which Aerugo is advised to respond. Concerns for the Colonel's health were allayed earlier in the month when he satisfied all physical and mental assessments, including the use of automail enhancements._

It was more than a press statement. Since she left Tolven she had retained some hope that she might save him from the evils the State intended for him. The statement on the radio; it was a confirmation of fates. Hawkeye opened her right hand and imagined the promise she made – _that _promise – resting there like a tiny bird. How easy it would be to let the thing fly away! She could simply let it go; submit it to the myriad disasters that had befallen them since their journey south. But it was impossible. It was her promise to keep and to cherish and only hers. Who else would look after such a thing?

The baby kicked and Hawkeye winced, drawing the momentary attention of the waitress. She bowed a humble apology to the girl who smiled in return, first at Hawkeye's face and then at her bump. To think that even as the baby moved towards life, the father was edging closer to his inevitable and necessary death. Two stars racing towards the same point in time, the same universe-shaking event; a light particle floating towards a mirror.

A pale face passed the window and she knew him at once. Bormann took the same route home every day without fail. Where Hawkeye and Mustang had hidden their tracks like skittish foxes, Bormann took no such precautions. His face nor his stride nor his route changed because he was a man who believed himself utterly without threat.

It was too late for him to learn to be cautious. He was a game hunter, cocky enough to venture out alone and now in the sights of a silent, solitary leopard. Hawkeye was a soldier. She had killed for reasons less than this. Today, Martin Bormann would leave this world.

Slipping from the table with some effort, Hawkeye took her coat from the back of her chair and put it on with measured ease. She settled her bill with a single note (one of many forwarded by Havoc) and exited with a practiced smile Roy Mustang would be proud of.

It didn't take long to catch up with Bormann. People were rushing now that the light was dimming. Hawkeye, never one to stand out, easily navigated the crush of coats and canes. Just ahead of them was Montrose Street then after that, Montrose Close where he would turn off and take the winding cobbled stairs down to his house on Colburn Street. She kept close now and slid her hand into her pocket to feel for her dog tags. They'd become a near religious token to her in these last few weeks, burnt as they were. They offered something of a continuity between the hellish now and the lost, irrecoverable then.

There he went, turning the corner without so much as a glance over his shoulder. His carelessness invited his death. He was supremely careless: careless in the most fundamental understanding of the word. As careless with his own life as he was with others.

She turned after him and despite the faint shadow she cast, he still didn't turn. He invited death; every single deplorable ounce of him.

"Bormann," she called. She cocked her pistol.

He stopped dead and had to steady himself against the wall with one hand. The ice was thicker away from the sun-lit street. He kept his back to her and said, "Is this a stick up?" It was clear he spoke through a smile, voice playful with calm irony.

"It's not a stick up." Hawkeye smiled in return even though her heart screamed: _Him! He did this! _In a dark place deeper than her heart though, she knew that Bormann was not at the beginning of all this. He was just another part in the greater machine. He was the man sat in front of the chess board and told: play. He didn't make the game. None of them did. Not even Bradley. This was just the world they lived in.

His shoulders shook as he allowed himself a chuckle. "So cool," he purred.

"The Cassandra Project," said Hawkeye. "How did you get Colonel Mustang? How did the Aerugonians get involved?"

"May I turn around?"

"No," replied Hawkeye. She shifted onto her right foot to steady her hands. The light was fading and she'd started to shiver. "Answer the question."

Bormann sighed with childish extravagance. "And I suppose you aren't going to tell me who you are, are you? Mustang was like a weed; roots everywhere. I've never known anyone so _involved _before. It was a lot of work: de-weeding." He paused and his small head bobbed beneath the high collar of his coat. "You're not the ghost of his whore Lieutenant, are you?"

Her shivering grew deeper and she rocked on her feet to chase the building tremors. It was only then that she recognised the feeling for the rage it was. "Mustang. How did you get him?," she asked through gritted teeth. The little one in her tummy was still, almost as if it was waiting.

"Would you believe me if I said luck?" replied Bormann. "You wouldn't believe how lucky we got. Mustang's neat accident saved us a lot of trouble, in the end. A great deal of trouble. I suppose our good luck meant you were a little less fortunate. What a shame."

Hawkeye bit her lip, her face full of bitterness. She shook her head. "Aerugo. Was that luck too? How did you convince them? Money? Arms?"

Bormann laughed. "Oh come on, now," he said through his false, grating chuckles. "Aerugo?" He laughed harder, bending at the waist. As if quelling a cramp, his hand went to his side. "Aerugo was never involved, you idiot-woman." He laughed again and spun, a black revolver in his black-gloved hand. "They were never involved!"

Hawkeye's bullet bit him through the right eye and her second through the cheek before he'd even raised his arm. His death hit the wall in a human soup of teeth and hair and flesh. He tumbled backwards off his narrow perch and crashed down the stone steps, bouncing here and there. Undignified. She watched a portion of his scalp slide, slug-like, down the glistening wall before settling amongst the moss and bird shit.

Alarmed, passersby the main street started shouting. Soon the police would arrive. Her left hand, now steady, replaced her pistol. She started down the steps, careful not to slip. She didn't pause to reflect on what she had done. She didn't stop to gloat or mock his own poor luck. Martin Bormann required no further attention.

In that moment between Bormann's turning and his death, she'd seen something. It rose up in the features of his almost pretty face like a flock of alighting birds; chased the rage from her trembling body. Fear. He'd cared, at last, and died scared. She thought of Armstrong and winced. It was a kinder parting than the monster deserved.

Before her was a ledge onto a side path and there a little door through which she made her exit. She couldn't be caught. Not yet. There was one more person she had to see.

o-o-o

Roy Mustang's celebrity had only deepened after what was named The Tolven Contra. The official line was that due to the severity of his injury, he was rendered amnesiac; forgetting everything but his passionate loyalty to his nation. It was a point of romance the press devoured. Rumour had it that he cried when he first saw the Fuhrer again; wept against his shoulder like a long-lost son who'd finally come home. When Hawkeye thought of that scene, she wished she could feel some indignation on his behalf, but that wasn't the case. Not at all. She hoped it was true, for him. She hoped he was still human enough to feel the rushing relief, the sense that there still existed one person he knew by name. What a pitiful consolation.

Since coming back to Central, Hawkeye watched her Colonel as she had always done. The only difference was proximity. As his recovery progressed, his name appeared in the press more and more. While the military continued to market him wholesale to the Amestrian public, the tabloids speculated on the mysterious, broken Hero of Ishbal. Since the procedure, Mustang had lost his social hunger and she'd even heard whispers that he was half-mad or simple. People said he was quiet, boyish and desperately alone. He worked under the Fuhrer and practiced his alchemy daily. When she followed him through Central, less a shadow than a ghost now, she saw how he flinched at every salute, wave or acknowledgement of his existence. He drank tea because it was easier to order than coffee, he walked everywhere or took a private car, and he never, ever smiled. It was one more beautiful thing that had been taken from him.

His hair was neater now than it had ever been, parted smartly. Handsome. Different. He was thinner, and his once assured gait was fractured by the awkward weight of his arm. They said he'd made a record recovery with his automail, but she never once saw him lift his left arm or move a single finger. He still carried his gloves, forgoing the array etched on his frightening, impostor limb. As she watched him from trolley cars, cafe windows or following in his quiet wake, she was reminded of her old house, the place where they had started. It too was once a grand thing, full of brightness and full to the rafters with possibilities. It was where she'd first seen him, bony shoulders framed by spring light and his yellow socks uneven on his thin, storkish legs. They'd gone through fevers, tantrums, hours of study and want within those four thick walls. Now that house sat alone on its sad hill, no living thing within bar the spineless creatures that fed on rot. How she wished she could take him there, push him by the back through the high front door and lock it behind them. She'd turn the clock on its head and fly back through time, together with him. She'd pull every shred of their history from him: Tolven, Ishbal and that cursed alchemy. Pull it and pull it – two hands tearing – watch it stream from his mouth like a magicians handkerchief. Then, when all had been spent, she'd lie with him again- ignorant and safe for being so.

She shook her head and then leant it against the cold window of the trolley. He was the dreamer, not her. Yet, all she could do since her release from the Sugar Loaf was _dream. _Perhaps it was the baby, she thought. Perhaps it was him, his spirit, from within their child, rising up through her veins and arteries until the thoughts settled like pebbles in her mind. Two Mustangs: one within and one with out, and both of them powerless to know one another. She sighed and watched her breath fan across the glass and greasy fingerprints. While she had breath, _she_ was not powerless. While she had breath, she could still serve him and the child.

Alighting from the trolley, the Lieutenant took a moment to fix her large, shapeless cap. She pulled her coat about her and made her way towards the warm lights of the Grande Sheraton. The military looked after the Colonel at least. He was appointed a suite on the twelfth floor of the hotel, one of the best in the country. There were mornings when the Lieutenant sat alone in the Milngavie Park to watch his window until he appeared – just a dot. She tried to imagine what he was thinking as he stood above the city; what he was looking for. She wondered if his eyes sought Tolven and the things he had lost there. He'd been told he'd lost his memory in a mission south gone foul. He'd been told he'd taken over Vought's command after the General was killed. He'd been told versions of the truth so close it made her teeth hurt.

The outside of the hotel was lined with small bushes dressed in tiny lights. The windows of the ground floor restaurant wore fine, thick curtains as red as tongues. Within, dinner was starting and the glass was fogged with human heat. There at the abundant tables, people were fretting over their menu. The lamb or the beef.

She opened her right hand – Mustang's hand – and studied the twin creases that marked her palm; the lifeline and the heart-line, curling towards each other but never touching. As passersby chatted and clung to each other against the cold, she stood awhile under the towering presence of the hotel. She'd shot Bormann with her left hand and she'd deliver Mustang with her right. She ran the fingers of her left hand across the calluses that sat at the bottom of each finger like sentries. Mustang's story was written in the history books of Amestris, and hers in the tough skin of her own hands. She looked up into the clear sky and breathed noisily. _If only there were calluses for the heart. _

Enough. She pulled her heavy coat closed to better hide just how big she was and tugged the loose cap down over her eyes. She'd bought nice shoes and a nice bag so that she might pass as an older lady hopped-up against the cold. Calmly, she pushed through the revolving doors, waved a greeting to the concierge and made it to the brass elevator without so much as a second glance in her direction.

She arrived at 12b and could hear the radio inside. He was listening to a piano piece, Claire de Lune maybe. The rich, plentiful notes rolled over each other with almost messy intensity. She didn't need to knock. She knew he left the door open at this time to let his evening tea in. He was the Flame Alchemist, after all, and had little to fear. Like Bormann, his certainty was on her side.

She pushed the handle down and the door swung inward silently. She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her. She was shocked to see that night had fallen, quick as a guillotine, and the first flakes of snow were drifting past the large windows like cinder. It was a bare and sad space, his suite. A pitiful goldfish bowl sat on one cabinet and the radio sat on the other. They were the only details in an otherwise ordinary hotel room. He was standing at the window, his back to her, and for the first moment, it appeared as though he were looking out across the city, but he wasn't. He was looking at her. His black eyes hung in the black sky hundreds of feet above the city, studying her without expression or fear.

"Have you come to kill me?" he asked.

Their baby rolled and pushed, rolled and pushed inside her – too big now, really, to stir much. She wondered if it knew, in some carnal part of its tiny, powerful mind, that its makers stood together again at last.

She asked, "Will you go to Aerugo?"

His eyebrows pressed together with genuine confusion. He still hadn't turned to face her, but somehow it seemed better; speaking to the reflected Colonel. She had feared meeting his eyes again and what that might to do her and her resolve. It was all that was left: the promise spoken of in the calluses on her hand. She would not let him down. She would serve him even when he was past serving himself. That was her role; her entire purpose. There was no-one else. Who would defend him if not her?

"Aerugo?"

"The mission. At the beginning of March. You've been training for it. Will you go?"

He understood and issued a weak 'ah' before his face fell into deep thought. After a time, he nodded. She didn't want him to nod. She wanted him to speak.

Her left hand shot into her pocket and she fingered her dog tags. She remembered Havoc's mother at his father's funeral doing just that with a small religious medal. She'd rubbed it so much, you couldn't even see the face anymore. The simple tin dog tags, they were her relic. How many times had he lifted them over her head, kissed the little puckers the metal globes left on her neck? They lay in her pocket, as precious as a lump of gold: at once a token of their public and their deeply private selves. The baby rolled, awkward in the too-small space of her womb. In just one more month, it would be born into this other-world: the world she'd walked into from the darkness of the Sugar Loaf. Leaving the mountain was like stepping through a mirror, through a magical wardrobe into a cruel and hopeless place. For in one more month, Roy Mustang would be in Aerugo, murdering hundreds. Doing what he said he'd never do again.

"Why?" she said, struggling now to keep emotion from her voice. In the glass, the vision of his chest, his shirt, his black black hair- all of it him and yet not him, shone back at her, framed by the lights of the city beyond. His voice was the same, his eyes the same, his beauty and courage the same but all of it was stolen now; misdirected and lied to. He didn't know. He was the most innocent being, the most betrayed.

His eyes left hers and drifted down into the city. She knew that look.

_Please no_, she thought. Memory filled the room with the inevitability of a returning echo.

He put his hands in his pockets and leant back on his heels. So casual and yet, he'd guessed why she had come. "I know I'm just one man, but... even one man can make a difference." She saw her father's grave in the snow that floated past the window. She closed her eyes and let the whiskey-rich timbre of his voice shake each sinew and bone in her body. The baby stirred, again and again, it stirred inside her. "Our borders are assaulted from all sides and... I'm sorry, this... it sounds childish. Naive." His eyes flew back to hers, checking her response. There was that shy youth with the supernova dream again. He looked back, not at the city but at the far, far horizon, where the lights shrunk to nothing.

With her right hand, Hawkeye pulled her pistol from its place. The baby rolled inside her again. Roy Mustang continued, his black eyes shining through the image in the glass. "Even so, if I could protect everyone with these hands, I think I'd be-"

She screamed at the bang for the first time in her life. Bloody glass exploded outwards and seemed to hang in the air before it curved, glinted and spun out of sight. The Colonel rocked on his feet, then pitched forwards towards the abyss. Hawkeye raced to him, wound both arms around his breast and pulled him backwards. They fell onto carpet as thick as lush grass. He tumbled from her arms and lay panting, wide eyes tracing the ceiling until they fell on her. She dreaded a sign of recognition, some miracle spark in the lines of his face, but there was none.

He coughed once and blood spilled from his mouth in a frothing string. "You-" he tried, but the word choked and he stopped short, gasping for air.

Hawkeye fought to see through blurry eyes. Words tumbled from her mouth. She knew at any second he would be gone. In his altered mind, no one had ever spoken any kindnesses to him. In this mirror-world, Roy Mustang was unloved.

"I know you think you're alone," she sobbed. She grabbed his hand – his flesh and blood hand – and thrust it against her stomach. His eyes narrowed with suspicion, then sprang open again in disbelief. She pressed his palm harder against the firm, rounded flesh. "But this is our child." She swallowed, then fought for air. She felt like she was back in Tolven, drowning in rain. Her knuckles whitened as she renewed her grip. "Ours... our child and - and you've forgotten. You've been lied to but-"

She sobbed, coughed, choked on her terror, on her love, on her rapture at seeing his eyes and feeling the warmth of his hand once again.

"Colonel," she whispered. "Mister Mustang I have always loved you. I have worshipped you from the first and you have never been alone since then." She moaned and half sank across him. "Never."

Air bubbled up through the blood. He was trying to speak.

Unaware and distracted by her act, she didn't hear him at first. "You're not alone... I wouldn't ever..." she continued like a crazed preacher on the church steps.

With near-empty eyes and movements clumsy with death, Roy Mustang reached out with his automail hand and pulled the loose cap from her head. It tumbled to the floor and her hair fell about her shoulders. His thumb drew a line down her cheek and slid free with the tears. It landed heavily beside him.

She looked at him at last.

He smiled at her crookedly. Dimples cut the corners of his mouth and a timorous fire warmed his eyes. He tried to raise his hand again but couldn't. All he could manage was a fond, familiar wink. "Knew it," he whispered, and then sighing, closed his eyes forever.

The radio was silent. The snow that drifted past the window was silent too.

Hawkeye sat on her heels and stared at the Colonel's body. She was as still as the room; as still as the hand that lay cupped against her stomach. The baby fidgeted angrily within her and at once, the radio came alive with the next song; a psalm she didn't know. Their baby: the last surviving Mustang, the last of him. Its father was gone and with him any hope of a safe, peaceful Amestris. She would not let their child suffer as they had suffered, would not bring it through the mirror and into this dark, dangerous other-place. She was strong enough to save them both; strong enough despite how terribly her hands shook.

As the opening strings surged out from the modest speakers, Riza Hawkeye's eyes stuttered up and fell on the shattered fringe of the window. In front of her, Central lay like a field of stars and beyond that, unknowing Aerugonians went about their evening business, saved from death by fire. The buzzing of a thousand locusts filled the Lieutenant's mind; white noise speaking of the deepest, maddening confusion. Light faded from the room about her and all sensation left her tired, ripe body. She took the pistol from her hip and with her left hand, shot herself.


	13. Epilogue

_Sion Mills, Eastern Region, 17th August 1901_

_Something more beautiful than what they are._

Two heads, one as blonde as the bleached grass they lay in and one as black as night, lay pressed together, damp with morning dew. Both bodies were sore with experience. The boy's fingers made circles on the girl's back, right where she said it hurt.

Above them, a chrysalis glinted gold over green in the sunlight. It seemed to cling, frightened, to the thin stalk it had made its temporary home. As the breeze pushed it one way, then the other, it was a miracle its weight hadn't toppled the grass by now.

"It doesn't seem real," said Riza. She was lying in the crook of his arm, one leg thrown between his and one arm pillowing his head.

"Mm?" queried the boy, sleepily.

"The colours. The cornflowers, the sky, that bug," she said, her voice full of wonder. Suddenly, she snapped her head to face him, eyes fierce. "And I don't want you to spoil it with science."

He laughed and bumped his head against hers. "It's wonderful."

She looked at him for a long time, checking if he was teasing her, but she saw his eyes were full of admiration. She looked back at the chrysalis.

"Though that's not a bug."

She groaned. He really couldn't help himself.

"It's probably just a soup of cells at the moment."

"A soup-"

He bumped their heads again, as if he might transfer the science by way of osmosis. "Pupation. Soon, that soup is going to be a butterfly. A red admiral maybe," he said, sighing. "It's magical in its own way. More magic than magic." He laughed at himself.

She rolled her eyes but said nothing. Her chest rose and fell under her thin yellow shirt and her eyes misted with a sudden strength of feeling.

Roy sat up and studied her, concerned. "Are you okay? You're not in the habit of crying these days, are you?" She didn't answer. She just kept staring, angrily almost, at the innocent little pod. Roy laughed and kicked her lightly; rousingly. "_Riza_," he said.

"Do you think it knows that it'll become what it's going to become?" the girl asked, her voice tight with something like upset. "That it's turning into something better than what it was?"

Roy looked back at the pod, now just inches from his face. "I don't know," he said softly. He pushed his fingers through her hair and left them there. His heart filled with new admiration for this strangest of strange girls- all his. It was just the two of them. "I don't know," he shrugged. "It's some transformation though: turning from this little hungry worm into something capable of flight... colourful... fragile. Even its name becomes more beautiful."

Riza pulled him back to lie beside her. She spoke with her eyes fixed on the sky above her. She tried to imagine what that butterfly would look like the first time it flew. After a time, she took his hand and laid it gently on her stomach. He smiled at her fondly. "I wonder if that's what happens when we die," she whispered. "Is there something more beautiful for us when this is all over?"

The boy bit his lip, struck by her question as powerfully as the thought must have struck her. He supposed it _was_ a kind of death. "I don't know," he said. "But I really hope so."

* * *

**Please let me offer the biggest thanks imaginable for your wonderful support over the last two years. (Two!)**

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**Writers I want to signpost here are: disastergirl, Antigone Rex, Oedipus Tex (no relation), ThousandSunnyLyon and Sammyquill. **

**Thank you.**


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